


like liars do

by blacktreacle



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Zayn, CEO Zayn Malik, Dysfunctional Family, Erectile Dysfunction, Escort! Liam, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jealousy, Love Confession, M/M, Rich Family, Romantic Getaway, Sexual Assault, Slow Burn, Smut, Top Liam, Zayn is the rich CEO, a really weird love triangle, but Liam is the daddy, mild homophobia, paid relationship, secrecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-06 19:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18224309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktreacle/pseuds/blacktreacle
Summary: After a constant pressure from his father to settle down and have children, Zayn hires Liam, an escort, into a faux romance for an evening gala his family is hosting. But when what should have been a one-night lie unfolds into an everlasting pretence full of celebration and deceit, Zayn realises he's hooked Liam into far more than he intended. With each day that passes, Zayn and Liam's lie and, perhaps, those more sacred and misguided notions that one can't ignore, begin to expose themselves for the truths that they are.(or, Zayn takes a risk on hiring Liam to be his pretend lover, but realises too late that it was a mistake to hire anyone at all.)





	like liars do

**Author's Note:**

> if you catch the scent of another fake-relationship au drifting around in the air, pulling you in further, don't worry. you're not going crazy. i smell it, too. 
> 
> oh, look. it's right here.  
> (enjoy!)

 

“I have a date.”

Zayn looks across the table to his family, to his friend, Cal. His sister Queenie sits at the far end, her assistant even further (so no one mistakes her as part of the family). Amery is closer to him, like she has been since she was a babe, her smile suspicious.

 _I have a date_ , Zayn says to himself, as though, if he says it enough, he’ll believe it, too. He must believe, for this to work. Zayn’s lips turn into a quiet grimace.

“You don’t look too sure about that,” Cal says.

“I do. I have a date. You just haven’t met them.” Zayn shrugs.

“Why haven’t we ever met them?” Amery asks.

“Because I know what you’re all like. You’ll scare them away,” Zayn says. “And I’d appreciate if you all waited to do that until after the Gala.”

“None of us need to lift a finger to do that,” Queenie says. “Zayn will scare her off all on his own.”

Zayn lifts his finger and is scolded by his mother for bad etiquette.  

“You should have more faith in him,” Cal says. “I’m sure he’s found someone, and I’m sure they’ll be much prettier than you, Queenie.”

“Thank you,” Zayn says.

When chatter blooms across the table, Cal leans in to Zayn, his voice low.

“You haven’t got anyone, have you?” he whispers.

“Yes,” Zayn says slowly, his inflection precise to present the lie perfectly, “I have. I thought you said more faith should be bestowed on me.”

Cal hums. “The ambiguity is prevalent, I suppose. We don’t want Queenie knowing I compared her beauty to an _Adam_ ,” he says.

Zayn swallows, and takes a sip of wine. “Yes. It’s probably for the best.”

“Come out with me tonight,” Cal says. “I’m going down to Club9. I’m meeting someone, but we can have a drink.”

“If you’re meeting someone, I won’t intrude,” Zayn says.

“You’re not. You couldn’t ever intrude. Just come down, have one drink with me, stay at my place. We can catch the tennis tomorrow,” Cal says.

Zayn ponders it. “The new recruits are starting on Monday. Julie says there’s some things in the office I have to prepare beforehand.”

“She’s your assistant. Why can’t she prepare them for you?” Cal asks.

Zayn smirks. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“When a good time is involved? Yes.”

It’s to be expected that when someone means one person—they mean one person. But he must consider, Zayn should be expected to understand that what Cal says is never as straightforward as what Cal means. And by one person he did, in fact, mean a whole room of people, of which populace is made up mostly of those you stuff notes into the pockets of or slink your arms around all night like fine jewellery.

There are two on Cal’s arms all night. A red-head with wide hips that downs shots as they line up and snorts coke off the table; the other is quieter, but demands more attention from Cal and those around him, in quick flicks of tongue and gentle caresses and, as the night goes on, glances that sweep from Cal to the red-head, all the way over to Zayn, where they linger for periods of time and disappear again. Zayn finds his eyes on the soft brunet of his hair, even when those stares benefit no one.

He doesn’t remember drinking much, but Zayn’s head hurts in the morning. His first thought is to Cal and how he is not opposed to slipping something into Zayn’s drink to make him relax, and has taken up the hobby of doing so whenever Zayn can’t seem to unwind. Inappropriate perhaps, but Zayn has never objected.

But he doesn’t think that’s the case. Usually, ecstasy leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, one that can’t be scrubbed away in the morning. His mouth is only in need of water, to which he finds himself at the kitchen sink, coming to the realisation that the pounding in his head is not the aftermath of intoxication but of something much more urgent in his mind.

He’s stressed. The strip of Celexa on his bedside table pops into his mind, and he drops his head back with a groan.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Zayn looks up. The brunet saunters across the open living room, pulling on his shirt as he enters. He looks as immaculate as he did last night, with only a few strands of hair that’s he’s not been able to move back into place falling around his forehead. Zayn stares at him, a scoop from head to toe, watching him in the sunlight that bathes him.

His skin looks soft, Zayn thinks.

He sits in front of Zayn, on one of the stools at the kitchen island.

“Is this what you consider paradise?” Zayn asks.

He looks around. “How could somewhere like this not be paradise?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Cal has never known how to proportion where he puts his money in a home. _Shiny silver here, and even shiner gold there_. The guy has no sense of interior decorating.”

He takes Zayn’s water from him. “And you? What do you know about interior design?”

“I don’t need to know anything but what I like. The interior designers do the rest,” Zayn says.

“So you’re a rich man,” he says. It’s a statement. “A nice watch means an even nicer home.”

Zayn supposes it’s fair to assume that any friend of Cal’s is as rich, and possibly even more arrogant than him. He chuckles.

“Do all escorts have eyes like magpies?” Zayn asks.

“Yes. We have to.”

“You want to,” Zayn says, “because you’re greedy.”

“Not as greedy as you, clinging on to all that wealth for yourself,” he says, sipping his water. Zayn’s water. 

Zayn straightens his back and fold his arms over his chest. The pain in his head becomes nothing but a faint thump he can forget, his mind too occupied by shiny new things.

Perhaps he’s the magpie.

“How much did Cal pay you?”

“Not enough for what he wanted me to do,” he says.

Zayn inhales. “And what do you do?”

His lips quirk at the edges, daring. “Anything you want. As long as I get paid.”

Zayn follows the movement of his face: the lowering of his brow as it falls; the tinge in his cheeks, not from the dirtiness of what he’s done the night before—Zayn assumes he’s an angel in his own world—but from the buzz of whatever drug Cal offered him between hits; the soft rhubarb of his lips, barely chapped from being moisturised and busy all night.

His skin looks _very_ soft.

“You’re older than Cal,” Zayn says.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t say by more than three years, but you’re older. You sit like you’re older.”

“I sit like I’m older.” He laughs.

“Cal sits like the world is at his feet, but he’s insecure. He thinks the world owes him something,” Zayn says. His eyes curl over the muscles underneath skin. “But your shoulders are tall, you sit like you have something to give to the world, not something to take from it. You’re unafraid.” Zayn pauses. “There’s something very attractive about that.”

“It’s called not giving a fuck what people think,” he says.

“And you learn that from stripping for anyone who pays you enough?” Zayn asks.

For a moment, he stills. Not in shock or in anger; he relaxes, like he’s realised something he didn’t before. “Yes. Did you learn how to be so analytical by belittling other people?”

Zayn raises his chin, humming. _The opposite._ Instead, he says, “Yes.”

“I hate to do this,” he says, “but if we’re going to continue this conversation, I’m going to have to charge you. It’s my time, after all.”

“Of course. I would be more than happy to. If only it wasn’t my knowledge that Club9 does not offer its escorts out to public service before nightfall, and the sun has just returned,” Zayn says.

He grins. “A fan?”

“I have dabbled.”

“In Adeline. Or, perhaps, Javier? He has nice legs.”

“Probably not as good as you,” Zayn says.

“How’d you work that one out?” He asks.

“If Cal insists on you, that’s all the proof I need.”

“He has good taste?”

“He’s a dirty fucker,” Zayn says. “I give credit to anyone who can put up with his… tastes.”

“You’re right about that. Andrew left before we got here,” he says.

“The red-head? He was pretty.”

“He’s not as advanced. There’s still some things he hasn’t experienced.”

“And you—how experienced are you?” Zayn asks.

“Imagine how much experience ten years gives you, and double it,” he says. “I’ve done most things. Humans, as beautiful as they are, disgust me.”

“I won’t attest to it.”

“Then, you’re smarter than your friend,” he says.

Zayn scoffs. “It doesn’t take much to be smarter than Cal.”

He laughs. His eyes crinkle at the sides, like flickers of waves at the sea, and his teeth are shiny white and paid for as they glare against his tanned skin.

 _Very soft_.

“You look tired,” he says.

“And you look shiny new. Good stamina?” Zayn asks.

“ _Excellent_ stamina.”

Zayn looks down to the floor and up again, amused. He doesn’t remember if he woke up aroused or if it’s just come upon him. Zayn looks over his skin again, and it almost gleams in the light, showered in Cal’s gold-flecked wash that Zayn bought him for his birthday. And he looks superb wearing it.

“Bathing isn’t a luxury that comes with the job,” Zayn says.

His eyes narrow, playfully. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

The sinews in his shoulders, the ripples across his abs. The delicate strength to his slim physique. Zayn can’t help asking.

“Does he take you, or do you take him?”

“We take each other,” he says, “often.”

“This isn’t your first time here,” Zayn says.

“My fifth, maybe. He’s taken a liking to me. I think it’s becoming a problem.”

“He has an addictive personality.”

“I’ve guessed. He snorts lines like water,” he says.

“When he’s all out.”

“And when he’s not all out?”

Zayn grins lowly. “It’s not often.”

“Aren’t you concerned?”

“It’s my job to worry about what he does with his life as much as it is yours,” Zayn says. “He’s a grown man. We should treat him as such.”

“He pays me to pretend to care,” he says. “I’m assuming he doesn’t do that with you.”

“No, he doesn’t. But I’m starting to think he should.”

“He hasn’t… _dabbled_ in you?”

“No, and I wouldn’t let him. We’re friends,” Zayn says.

“I have plenty of friends, too.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “No benefits.”

“Well, if you were to allow him, I think he would jump at the opportunity,” he says.

Zayn quirks a brow. “Assumptions are foolish.”

“Then I’ll be a fool in admitting that any man would be stupid not to.”

Zayn, favouring the stylish bag of his trousers that conceals the construction his cock makes underneath, takes a moment for himself. With hot ears, he smiles, hiding as he always does behind a façade.

“It’s almost 9am,” Zayn says. “Cal wakes up no later than ten. And doesn’t like to see the faces of his endeavours the morning after. He might think you’re overstaying you’re welcome.”

“And he would be right. But I’m intrigued by shiny things, and I saw you standing there,” he says, garishly grinning. “I am a magpie, after all.”

“Was it my eyes or my 20k watch that caught under the light?” Zayn asks.

“Both.”

He sets the glass on the counter and throws his coat over his shoulders, a lit cigarette between his teeth. The door opens for him. Zayn’s eyes follow him, until the elevator takes him out of sight. Zayn stares still, to where his presence recently sat and at the silent room he’s left behind.

Zayn takes the glass and accompanies the remaining water with Cal’s skin as he enters the bedroom.

“It smells like BDSM in here,” Zayn says.

Cal wipes the water from his face. “It’s called a good time, if you’ve heard of it.”

“I have heard of such a thing.”

“I don’t mean sitting on your own in the corner of a room with Tolstoy between your hands,” Cal says. “I mean real fun.”

“Yes, I’m also acquired to the taste of debauchery, and I find it too bitter to fit into my daily routine,” Zayn says. “Like Brussel sprouts.”

Cal looks to him, still half-wired. “Brussel sprouts.”

“You eat them once a year and enjoy them more when you do.”

“I don’t understand you,” Cal says.

“You don’t need to. It’s 9am,” Zayn says, and throws the rest of the water on him.

“Fuck, Zayn—I’m already awake!”

“I know,” he says. “That was for my amusement.”

Cal looks around. “Has Liam gone?”

“He’s just left,” Zayn says. “He must be crazy to have stayed for so long.”

Cal stands from the bed, naked, his cock half-hard, a stain on his chest. “The man knows how to have a good time. Up for anything, he is. He’s fucking wild.”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Zayn mumbles. Averting his eyes, he has a thought. “When you say he’s up for anything…”

“ _Anything_ ,” Cal reiterates. “You’re paying them, they do anything you want. You could… fucking cuddle all night if you wanted to. Or take them to the movies with you. If you ask me, there’s no better way to spend your time with someone like that than between the sheets. But, I suppose some people are boring.”

A cog in Zayn’s brain shifts enough to cause a creak, and he laughs to himself. Of course, he thinks. He’s so used to mommy and daddy handing him the silver platter of his desires that he forgot what it looks like when the world offers out it’s hand.

“Actually, Cal, there’s something I have to do,” Zayn says.

“I thought we were going to watch the tennis," Cal says.

“We are,” Zayn calls behind him, walking out of the room. “Give me an hour or so, then we can leave.”

“If you’re not back in an hour, I’m taking Jordan instead!”

It’s a sunny London day. The light hits the panels of the glass along the skyscrapers and makes the valley of the streets below blinding. Zayn shakes his eyes, darting back and forth between the faces on the bustle of the sidewalk, trying to find the one he’s looking for.

His eyes catch sight of a head of short, brunet hair, curled at the top and streaked with blond tips Zayn didn’t notice before. His eyes are more piercing in the daylight, his jaw more shadowed, his skin with a delicate fairness that makes him look dauntless.

Zayn approaches him almost cautiously. “I believe it’s Liam.”

He turns around, confusion turning into amusement. A cigarette between his lips. “If you’re back for more, I can’t give you anymore free talk-time. The last time I checked I wasn’t a phone service.”

“Then, I’ll pay you.”

Liam looks to him, and Zayn feels that it’s different. Because now there’s a name to the face, and Liam isn’t just another identity wandering around the streets that Zayn will lose with time. He’ll always remember Liam’s name. And if he forgets, Cal will most likely remind him.

Liam throws his cigarette to the floor and smothers the embers. “I don’t think that’s necessary. You look desperate enough.”

Zayn frowns. “I’m not desperate.”  

“Is that why you ran down here to catch me?” he says, grinning. “You’re not very fit.” He raises a finger to Zayn’s face, and strokes the skin. “Your cheeks are already flushed.”

Zayn moves away, instinctively. “I would have had to wait until Cal invited you over, otherwise.”

“Which wouldn’t have been very long, I’m guessing,” Liam says.

A whisk of wind blows through the valley of buildings. Zayn shivers, and looks to the coat hanging over Liam’s right shoulder. “Are you not cold?”

“No. But I suppose you are, with that flimsy dress shirt and no jacket. It’s two degrees out here,” Liam says.

“You’re only wearing a jumper yourself,” Zayn says.

“It’s thermal.” Then, he takes his coat and drapes it over Zayn’s shoulders.

Zayn watches, flustered. “What are you doing?”

“You’re cold, and I expect you’ll want to be warm to talk,” he says.

Zayn looks around him. The lack of privacy in the busy street stifles him. “There’s a restaurant around the corner from here. We could go there. To talk.”

“I think I’d prefer it if you made your point now, and then we went to breakfast. I don’t want to waste my time,” Liam says.

“Right,” Zayn replies. He licks his lips and takes a breath. “Do you think you’ll be free two weekends from now? The whole weekend.”

Liam shrugs. “My schedule is busy and fluctuating. But versatile, for the people I like. I guess it depends who’s asking.”

“Me,” Zayn says, “I’m asking. I might need your help.”

 

 

 — + —

 

 

“So, who is this Adam?” Amery asks, swirling around on Zayn’s chair. “I heard you and Cal talking about him Saturday.”

“What? No—” Cal was being figurative, he wants to say, then realises he could go along with it. He grins to himself, his back turned from Amery. “Adam is… fine. I haven’t seen to him since yesterday.”

“Have you _ever_ really seen him?” Amery asks. “He’s real, right?”

Zayn looks to her, scoffing. “Yes, Amery, I’ve seen him. He’s very real.”

She looks suspicious but allows it. “Queenie thinks you’re bullshitting. And, I must be honest, a part of me does, too.”

“Queenie thinks everyone’s bullshitting unless she’s talking. And she talks the most shit of all. Of course she would think that,” Zayn says.

“So, this guy’s definitely all flesh and bone, and not your twelve-year-old imagination?”

“Yes, he’s real. I promise you,” Zayn says. “You’ll meet him at the Gala. He’s got a fancy suit, and everything. McQueen.” _I’m picking it up on Wednesday._

“You know what I think Queenie’s problem is? I think she’s more worried about him being a commoner who’s prettier than her,” Amery says.

Zayn turns around so he’s leans against the small unit. “Well, I suspect her fears will come into fruition,” he says.

Amery quirks her brows. “So he’s pretty?”

“Yes. He’s very pretty.” Zayn hides his smirk behind his glass of water.  “Do I deserve anything less?”

“Quite the opposite,” Amery says, her eyes pensive as she looks to Zayn. “I hope his heart is just as pretty.”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t discovered it yet,” Zayn says.

“Perhaps, one day.”

Liam’s heart. In a moment’s distraction, Zayn wonders what it would look like, at what softness hides behind that harsh and provocative façade. Is it brute and just as unyielding; or is tender and waiting to be held, despite the scars and lacerations that may impose its flesh?

He shakes his head gently, a sudden weight on his chest. It doesn’t matter what Liam’s heart is like; Zayn won’t keep him around long enough to figure it out.

“Yes,” Zayn says, “perhaps.”

The office door swings open after a knock. Julie’s head pops out from the other side. “The new recruits are settled in, Mr. Malik.”

“Thank you, Julie,” he says, but she lingers with a polite smile. “Is this the part where I display my prowess and pretend I know what I’m talking about?”

“I think so, Mr. Malik,” she says.

Amery sits up. “Are we going to scare the new guys?”

“No we’re not. _I’m_ going to be polite. You’re going to stay here and do those faxes for me, so Mum and dad think I’m doing something,” he says.

“Fine. But you’re getting lunch today.”

“Just tell one of the assistants what you want, they’ll get it for you,” Zayn says.

The ninth floor is always cold. It’s been that way since Malik senior bought it forty years ago. No one knows why (his father said it’s to do with the pipes, but it was never verified). It’s a wonder in the summer, when fingers get sticky just from typing and people struggle to concentrate because of the heat. But in the winter… Zayn is unnerved to see at least half the workers sat at their desks with coats on, the other half shrivelled up in jumpers.

“We should invest in some good heating for this floor. It’s a long time coming, considering we are a heating business,” Zayn says. “Perhaps, heated floors? It could be stripped up during the holidays and replaced.”

“I think that’s a good idea, Mr. Malik. Attendance rates drop on this level in the winter. People don’t want to work all day in the cold,” Julie says.

“Father knows someone. He can sort it out,” Zayn says. He looks to Julie when she stays silent. “Something you want to say?”

“Without offence, Mr. Malik, but this is your company now. I think you should contact a carpenter yourself. Your father will appreciate the initiative you’re showing and think you’re taking on the role he’s passed down to you seriously,” Julie says.

“You don’t think I’ve fooled him yet?” he jokes.

“No, I don’t think you have.” Julie chuckles. “I’m aware that you weren’t the most… passionate about taking over from your father, but we do all care about you, and will help make this as pleasurable for you as possible.”

Zayn smiles at her, gratefully. “Thank you, Julie. I appreciate that.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Malik.”

“I suppose, you know what it’s like to be stuck in a job you don’t like?”

“I appreciate my job very much,” she says.

“But no one wants to be someone else’s assistant for the rest of their life,” Zayn says.

Julie smiles down at her feet. “No.” She motions to the left. “The newbies are over here.”

They’re all huddled into a group of desks in the corner, looking out of place like all the newbies do. Those who aren’t too focused with their complimentary assessments stand when they see Zayn, some with appreciative gazes and others with worry. Zayn’s eyes glance over them, and then stop, his chest dropping into his stomach.

He raises his hand to greet them. He can tell from their faces, from how Julie looks to him, that they’re anticipating him to speak, to say something. But his tongue seems limp in his mouth and he can’t get a word out. He’s thankful that Julie comes to the rescue and informs them to return to their work (he’s a busy man, apparently and they all laugh and look away).

Julie introduces them to him in private. Jade, Blake, Will, Damien, Nancy, Brandon, Tate, Mark.

And lastly, who hasn’t even realised Zayn is stood at the front of the office, too enamoured by the tasks on his computer screen to care—to Zayn’s fortune— is Liam.

Zayn will forgive his new workers’ tardiness, if it means he can escape now before Liam sees him.

“They all look _wonderful_ ,” Zayn says. “How did—” He pauses. “How was Liam recruited?” he asks as they return to the elevator.

His palms feel shaky at his side, and he knows Julie is ignoring the slight tremor in his voice as he speaks simply out of politeness. It’s not—it’s not just Liam; it’s everyone. It’s everything. God, he’s an awful liar, and he despises human interaction.

“Mr. Payne?” Julie says. “He was very charming in his interview. And his credentials were impressive.”

Zayn’s first instinct is to blame Julie for this little predicament he’s found, but then shakes himself out of it. It’s his fault, of course it is. He wonders how long his lie of being a self-proclaimed Italian actor can hold up with Liam now that he’s working under Zayn’s roof. It’s Julie’s fault— _no_ , it’s not: if he wasn’t so desperate to raise to his families expectations of him, and his willingness to accept duplicity in order to get there, he wouldn’t be in this situation. It’s his fault for being an awful liar.

Ironically, Zayn wonders if he could elude not passing Liam’s cheques if he’s going to be paying him on the side. _More than he’ll ever get paid here_ , he thinks.

“Credentials?”

Julie nods. “His degrees in accounting and associates. He also studied an English degree but dropped out with only half his grades. And his A-levels were outstanding.”

“Charming, and a know-it-all,” Zayn hums.

“He is smart, I will say that. He was one of my first choices,” Julie says.

“Perhaps for another reason other than he was smart,” Zayn suggests. “His brilliant eyes wouldn’t have anything to do with it?”

Julie’s cheeks flush. “I can assure it was a strictly professional decision, Mr. Malik.”

“Really? That’s disappointing,” he says.

“Why is that?”

“You’ve seen him, Jules,” he says, and walks out as the elevator opens, “I would have hired him on the spot.”

 _If only he wasn’t my falsified lover. How unfortunate for me_.

“Would you like me to get lunch now? Ms. Malik has told me what she would like,” Julie says.

“No, make her wait an hour. It’s only 11am. If she’s hungry, she should have had breakfast.”

 

 

— + —

 

“I’m having a dilemma.”

“What about?”

“What would you do if you had to work with someone you had… public relations with?”

Amery rests her feet on his desk. “Well, I don’t have that issue. I’ve never dated someone before, so I can’t meet someone that doesn’t exist.”

Zayn narrows his eyes and shoves her off. “Good.”

“But if I did, and I had to work with them, I suppose it would depend on how the relationship still is between us,” she says.

Zayn sighs. “It’s not awkward. But I have a fear it might end that way, eventually.”

“In that case, I would quit,” she says. “But, if it’s in your case and you’re the boss, well… you can’t exactly quit, can you? I think daddy would kill you if you did, anyway.”

“So, you think I should fire them?” Zayn asks.

Amery shrugs.

“But they’re a good worker, and they’re qualified for the job. I can’t fire them on their first day for no reason,” he says.

“Then, either wait for them to make a mistake, or find one,” she says. “I know you aren’t opposed to convoluting someone’s actions to benefit you.”

“I have not done that,” Zayn says.

“In a while.”

Zayn gives her a pointed look.

“If it’s that much of a deal to you, then solve it. You have options. And at the end of the day, it’s your company. You don’t need to justify what you do with it or it’s employees to anyone,” she says.

Zayn thinks about it. Then shakes his head. “I don’t want to fire someone just because of my personal feelings. It’s a business, after all.”

“So, which one is it?” she says.

“What?”

“Which intern is it? The one with the black hair, Jack, he’s pretty cute,” she says.

Zayn laughs and shakes his head. “I think I’d prefer it to keep it to myself. It seems like the perfect ammunition to have against me when you’re in a foul mood.”

“You’re probably right,” she says. “I’ll keep on guessing.”

“Guess away.”

Zayn makes a deal with himself to keep Amery as far away from Liam as possible.

 

 

 — + —

 

 

 “Are you even listening to me? I’ll say it once more for your benefit. I have two sisters: Amery and Queenie. They’re both annoying, but Amery is lesser so. She’s more mature. Queenie has issues, and she’s in love, so you can imagine how unbearable it all is. You’ll probably see her boyfriend at the Gala.”

Zayn huffs as he watches Liam from the dining table. He watches Liam’s eyes analyse everything, his fingers brush anything they can touch, looking down at his hand to check for dust every now and then. Zayn makes sure his cleaner is meticulous and puts in the work for her pay. She visited earlier this morning: Liam won’t find anything.

“A candelabra by Gucci,” Liam says, scoffing. “Rich people are always so unnecessary.”

“If it’s any consolation, I picked out nothing but the settee’s, the lamps, and the television. Everything else was designed for me,” Zayn says. He sips on his wine. Liam hasn’t even touched his. “Will you come and sit down now? My home is not an exhibition.”

“It might as well be. This house is full of crazy shit,” Liam says, and comes to sit down at the table. “What’s with the fancy clock in the bathroom?”

“Which fancy clock in which bathroom?” Zayn asks.

Liam looks confused. “There’s more than one bathroom?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and pushes Liam’s glass towards him. “Were you listening to what I was saying?”

“Yes, I was,” Liam says.

“Then, repeat what I said.”

Liam thinks re-collectively for a moment. “Your parents are Tricia and Yaser. Your sisters call them Mummy and Daddy, but you think it’s childish, so you call them Mama and Papa. You have two sisters called Amery and Queenie. Amery is your favourite, and you think Queenie is a bitch, who has issues. She’s in love with her boyfriend, Varo, and you think a lot of her issues stem from the fact she’s insecure about being adopted.”

Zayn frowns. “I was speaking idly about that last part.”

“You told me to listen,” Liam says.

His focus is solely on Zayn now, eyes passing over his face, down to his suit, and up again. Zayn clears his throat and sips his wine to swallow the discomfort of being stared at. He’s never been good at handling that.

“Anything else?” he asks Liam.

“Your auntie Stella will be at the Gala, but we won’t see much of her because she’s constantly trying to flirt with the successful business men your parents have ties with. Your parents and your sisters and you should be the only people I have to converse with. Apart from, maybe, a server. The Gala is being held by your parents to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of their business opening. It’s important that your parents don’t get embarrassed, it’s their night.”

Zayn nods. “Good.”

“Is there anything else I’ll need to know?” Liam asks. His fingers fiddle with the silver pendant around his neck.

Zayn’s eyes follow his fingers, but Liam doesn’t seem to notice that his attention is lost feebly. He’s always been good at multi-tasking. “My driver will pick you up from your home and bring you here a few hours before the Gala begins. You’ll get ready, and then we’ll leave together, and we’ll arrive as a couple,” he explains, monotonously. He’s been over it in his mind a hundred times. Every facet is planned out. He’s always been a good planner. “Any more questions?”

“Why do you think I’ll embarrass your parents?” Liam asks.

Confusion passes over him, then realisation. A small trip in his words, but Liam noticed. “I don’t mean it in offence. I just want you on your best behaviour, is what I meant,” Zayn says.

“Why wouldn’t I be on my best behaviour?” Liam continues. “Because I… sell my body to people? So, you think I’m going to throw myself at random people in the room, like your aunt Stella?”

No, I—” Is that what he’s implying? He’s not trying to, but perhaps there’s a thought in his mind and his tongue keeps unwittingly circling back to it. Zayn has the sense that he’s only going to dig himself a deeper hole. “I just want it to be a good night for my parents.”

 _And I want to at least say I was able to get away with this one thing_. Just the one. Even if it means coming to the realisation that he must pay for someone to pretend to be his lover because no one wants to willingly touch him. He takes a gulp of wine.

“You’re paying me to pretend to be your boyfriend,” Liam says. “Unless I’ve misunderstood somewhere down the line.”

“No, that’s correct,” Zayn says.

“Why would I touch anyone else?”

Zayn shrugs.

“Are you allowed to drink with your medication?”

Zayn stills. His eyes narrow. “You’ve been snooping.”

Liam looks almost guilty. “You left them on the corner of your bathroom sink.”

“I’ve been doing it for years. Nothing has happened yet,” Zayn mumbles.

Liam takes a swill of his wine. Zayn suspects it’s just to make him feel better for drinking in the middle of the day.

“I know my job encourages a very… polyamorous lifestyle, but I am loyal to the people I’m doing business with,” Liam says.

“You mean, to the people who are lining your pockets. Extensively, may I add,” Zayn says. Red wine always makes him bitter.

“If you want to see it that way,” Liam says.

“I do.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, then we can negotiate some more.”

Zayn looks up from the rich silk drape of the table. “Remind me of what we’ve negotiated. How I see it, I offered you a million pounds to become an actor for the night, and you nodded your head like a salivating dog with a bone dangling above it.”

Liam’s face grows hard and then relaxes with a slow breath. “If you think that I’m going to be so tempted to pull the pants down of every man I see, then we’ll agree that if you do find another man’s cock in my mouth, you don’t have to pay be a penny.”

Zayn quirks his brow. “You’d be stupid enough to embarrass me _and_ lose a million pound? Just for a peck of an old man’s cock.”

“No,” Liam says, as if it’s obvious, “that’s what I’m saying.”

Zayn looks him over. Liam has strong brows, unyielding: Zayn’s father always told him that was a sign of a man who was certain of himself. But, in his experience, people in Liam’s profession tend to be good at deceiving. Isn’t that why he’s hired Liam to help him? Unconsciously, Zayn straightens his brows.

“Okay, fine. I’ll agree to that,” Zayn says. Just for effect, he adds, “And I want it to be clear that I’m not obligated to stay obstinate for your benefit. I can fuck whoever I like.”

“That’s fine by me,” Liam says.

“I don’t care if it’s not. And I will hold you to that. If you touch someone else, publicly, in front of my family or anyone where it might humiliate me, I won’t lose a minute of sleep to send you on your way with a reddened arse and no money to show for it,” Zayn says. “In fact, I’d rather keep my million pounds.”

“Fine, keep it. I’ll leave now.”

“No,” Zayn says, rushed, as Liam stands from the table. “I… I need your help. Stay.”

Liam sits back down at the table with a small smile on his face; a smile that tells Zayn he had no intention of leaving, and instead wanted Zayn to beg, wanted Zayn to show that he needed him. Zayn, with cheeks warming by the second, glares at him as if eyes could cut, though he supposes he probably deserves it. Red wine makes him bitter.

“It would be more of an embarrassment to have to tell my family that my boyfriend dumped me days before they were to meet him, rather than admit now that I need you,” he says, clearly uncomfortable. “And that is the only time I’ll say it, but I do. I need you to cooperate with me. I need this to work.”

Liam relaxes back into the chair and brings his wine to his lips. “I’m not helping you just for your money, I want you to know that.”

Zayn snorts. “Yeah, right. I might be rich, but I’m not stupid, Liam. _You’d_ be stupid to pass up that much money.”

“I’m not saying that the money isn’t persuading,” he says, “but I don’t work with people I find intolerable, or that I dislike. No matter how much they offer me. It’s about what I want, too, at the end of the day.”

“That is… surprising. Most people dislike me,” Zayn says.

“When you have this attitude, I can’t imagine why,” Liam says with a genuine, humorous laugh.

“If my attitude is a problem, then you can—”

“Leave?” Liam tries his best not to smile further. “We’ve already been over that.”

“You’re not just being paid to help me. You’re being paid to tolerate me, my flaws and my shining stars. My attitude, however happy or spiteful, is something that comes along with me, like my money. You don’t just get one, you have to endure it all.”

“Fine by me,” Liam says. “Do you have any kinks I should know about?”

Zayn’s eyes widen, and he almost chokes on his wine. He places it down on the table. “What?”

“They aren’t things I appreciate being thrown on me in the bedroom,” Liam says.

“The only thing you’ll be having thrown on you in a bedroom is water if you come anywhere near me. I’ll make it ice cold if you’re naked,” Zayn snaps, like a dog whose tail has been trodden on.

Liam holds his hands up. “I assumed sex would be part of the deal. I am an escort, and my nature tells me I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

“Sex will not be part of the deal,” Zayn says. His cheeks flush like he’s prudish. “I just need you to pretend.”

“We all have needs, Zayn.”

“And mine don’t have to be handled by you,” Zayn says.

He can’t help the turn of his lips when he remembers that Liam’s hands have been on Cal. Have most likely been _inside_ Cal in some way. How Cal’s tongue has perused Liam’s skin like a lollipop in early hours of the morning.

It’s not a big deal. He knows Liam has encountered all manners of people in his extensive experience in escorting and knows Liam’s hands have touched the most intimate parts of a hundred men. But familiarity is not always a blessing. Zayn has seen Cal’s uncircumcised cock, and imagining Liam’s mouth around it, the mouth he will (most likely) must kiss to feign authenticity to his family, makes him squirm.

“Okay,” Liam says. “If you change your mind—”

“I won’t,” Zayn says, thoughts still fresh in his mind. “Trust me.”

“I won’t hold you to it,” Liam says.

Zayn hums. “That cocky?”

“People are fickle. Minds change quickly,” he says.

Zayn picks up his wine and swills it around the glass. “Don’t hold your breath.”

 

 

— + —

 

 

Amery has always followed Zayn around like a shadow. From as old as she could walk, her miscalculated, wobbly sequence of footsteps had imitated Zayn’s behind him, slowing at staircases that were mountains and stopping at doors with handles too high for her to reach. But she had always been there, and Zayn had always made sure he was there, too; to stop her from hitting her head on polished door handles when she grew too tall and picking her up when her feet acted too precociously on the stairs.

Zayn pours her a glass of water, and then himself. “I should have your name engraved on the plaque, too. If you like my chair so much, I’ll get one for you.”

“Actually, I think this chair is in need of a replacement,” she says.

“It’s because you sit on it so much.”

“Maybe I’ll get _you_ a new one for Christmas. I’ll break it in for you.”

Zayn looks up at her and frowns. “Is that my shirt?”

It is. The personalised gold trims on the collars of most of Zayn’s shirts distinguish his wardrobe from others. An unnecessary commodity, but he’s always prided himself on his individuality; it also, usually, stopped people from stealing his clothes.

Amery, however, has never paid any attention to boundaries.

Still, she says, “No.”

“You’ve been to my apartment?” Zayn asks.

“You left it at mine when you slept over last,” she says. “I don’t know why daddy was so adamant on giving you this business. You don’t even want it.”

“He planned on giving me this business the second Mama found out I was a boy. Trust me, I wish he’d given it to you. Even Queenie would suffice. As long as it wasn’t me,” Zayn says.

“Queenie? No.” She shakes her head. “She is stupid. She wouldn’t know the first thing to do with a heating business.”

“I don’t,” he points out.

“No, but at least, if you wanted to, you could learn. Queenie’s brain is a nut in a shell. She hasn’t the capability to learn even if she wanted to,” Amery says.

Zayn gently laughs. “You’re too harsh to her, sometimes. Cut her some slack.”

“Because she’s adopted?”

Zayn gives her a pointed look. “Because you’re being rude. I thought you weren’t a child anymore.”

“I’m not.”

“Using childish antics against one another shows otherwise,” he says.

“I’m not a child anymore, Zayn. But we are still someone’s children. Childish antics will always be an ingrained part of our relationship,” she says. “I’m sure you have said a manner of things behind my back.”

Zayn sits down on the opposite side of his desk, facing Amery. He’s been reduced to a visiting seat, in his own building. “I haven’t, actually.”

“You’ve never kept it a secret that I’m your favourite sister.”

“I have never said that.”

“You didn’t need to,” she says.

“You’ve always been good at assuming things,” he says, “and then making yourself look foolish.”

“So, Queenie is your favourite sister.” There’s a look in Amery’s face that dares him to say it. She blatantly eyes the pens in his holder.

Zayn smirks. “I didn’t say that, either. And I would not like ink on my forehead.”

Amery opens her mouth to speak, but the door to Zayn’s office swings open and a bustling voice silences the softness of the room. She opts to roll her eyes instead, and Zayn chuckles to himself.

“I know you’ve never liked Cal,” Zayn says, quietly, whilst they’re still alone in this part of the office, “but try to be nice.”

“I will be nice if he will not be crude,” she says.

“Who is crude? I hope you aren’t talking about me. I’m ever nothing but nice to you, darling,” Cal says.

“And objectifying,” she murmurs.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he says, caressive. “I am an admirer of beauty, and of women. And you are a very beautiful woman. Anything I say to you is out of love and affection.”

“It’s a good thing I do not need your validation in order to feel pretty, then. Isn’t it, Cal?” Amery’s voice is calm. But her hands are tightly clasped over her abdomen, and Zayn knows his sister.

“Amery, you are a woman. You shouldn’t feel pretty, like a little girl,” he says. Cal lights a cigarette. “The affection of a man is what makes a woman feel womanly.”

“A man cannot make a woman feel womanly if that man is just a boy himself,” she says, and stands from the chair. “And it is respectful to do what a woman asks of you, and not what you think would appease her.”

As Amery walks over to the liquor table, Cal’s attention follows her, his body twisting in the chair in order to see. He brings his cigarette to his lips to hide his smirk, and his gaze drops up and down. Zayn frowns but says nothing.

“And what are you asking of me, little Amery?”

She sits the decanter down with more force; the lid rattles. She turns with flushed cheeks and thin, pierced lips. Zayn’s frown deepens.

“It means, I would like you to treat me how I’ve asked you to. With respect,” she says. “You don’t walk into a room and comment on how beautiful my brother looks.”

“Oh, on the contrary, I tell your brother he is sexy all the time,” he says. “I do not discriminate, you know this.”

Amery scoffs in disgust and returns to her seat. “I think it’s time I lowered my standards when it comes to you.”

“I have been saying this, darling. I am no gentleman. If you expect nothing of me, you will not be surprised."

“Oh, I’m not surprised. I don’t give men that satisfaction anymore,” she says, boldly. “They do, however, always leave me disappointed. Every time.”

Amery returns to her faxes laid out on the desk, sipping at a glass of water; Cal, to his cigarette, uncharacteristically quiet. _Perhaps Amery has struck a nerve_ , Zayn humorously thinks, but keeps it to himself. The air feels stuffy despite the cold.

“How come I have two visitors today, anyway?” Zayn asks.

“If I’m doing your work, I’m not a visitor,” Amery says. She thinks for a moment. “An advisor, perhaps.”

“And what would you advise him to do,” Cal joins, “paint the walls pink and have tea parties with the workers at lunch?”

She glares at him. “I would advise him to keep swine out of his office. It’s not a farm.”

Zayn sighs. “Will you two ever get along for more than ten minutes?” he asks.

“Perhaps if this boy follows in my brother’s footsteps and becomes a man I can tolerate,” she says.

“I’m three years older than your brother,” Cal says.

“And yet you act ten years younger.”

“If you two keep going on, I’m going to kick you both out,” Zayn says. “It may not be a farm, but when you two act like this you make it seem like a nursery.”

Zayn’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He smirks to himself, more than a little pleased for the reason to excuse himself. He stands and leaves the room, turning into the empty conference room adjoined to his office.

“What do I owe this pleasure?” Zayn asks. “If you’ve forgotten the name of my cousins again, I’m not going to remind you.”

“No, the names are perfectly safe in my mind. Or, at least on a sticky note on my fridge door,” Liam says. “I called to ask something else, actually.”

“Be merciful of me,” Zayn says.

“Are you always this teasing?”

“Only to people I enjoy.”

A pause. “You enjoy me?”

Zayn clears his throat. “In a sense that I find you slightly comical and not half abhorrent to look at, yes,” he says.

Liam chuckles. “Right.”

Another pause. Zayn taps his fingers on the surface of the round table.

“Well?” he says.

“Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to go to lunch with me,” Liam says. “Or, more accurately, if you want to take me to lunch, and pay.”

“You’re inviting me to lunch, but you want me to pay?”

“Yes. I assume, if you agree you’ll want to go somewhere of your choosing. You’re a bit of a control freak.”

Zayn frowns. “I’m not that bad.”

“The wine glass issue says different.”

“You were using the wrong kind, no one uses tumblers for—” He pauses himself, and sighs. “I don’t wish to prove your point correct.”

“You don’t need to. I know I’m right,” Liam says.

Zayn opens the door slightly behind him and glances into his office. He’s surprised to find that everything is calm, with Amery fiddling through files and papers, and Cal silently scrolling through his phone, Amery’s glass of water in his hand, stained with her lipstick. It’s always like this: Cal, when left alone with a woman who doesn’t proceed on his provocations turns into an awkward, shy boy who feels defeated, and Zayn can’t help but image a woman with a chastised puppy at her feet. Cal should know by now that Amery will not hesitate to put someone in their place behind her; even, on occasion, when she thinks he has stepped out of line, their father.

Zayn shuts the door to and brings the phone to his ear.

“I will meet you for lunch at a place of your choosing,” he says, adding, “Fast food is off limits.”

“There’s this café I used to go to, it’s around the corner from where I work. It’s nice. Pick me up?” Liam asks. “That is, unless you’re busy.”

Zayn looks around the office. “No. I’m at home. I’ll come and pick you up,” he says. He realises, as Liam’s presence in the building becomes painfully aware to him, sitting only four levels below where he’s stood, his mistake. “Where do you work?”

“I’ll send you the address. Grevin should be able to find where it is.”

Zayn’s brow arches. “You’re on a first name basis with my driver?”

“Yes.”

He hums. “Of course he’ll know where it is, he’s one of the best drivers in London. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

“There’s traffic.”

“Twenty, then.” He rolls his eyes. “Any other requests?”

“Where a coat. It’s cold today.”

  

— + —

 

Zayn makes Grevin take the car around the square once, so it doesn’t look like Zayn has taken the back way out of his own building, like a dalliance or a prostitute escaping from his office before anyone can see them, the building where people step out of their way to let him through. All for one man who uses his pretty face to woo wallets into opening.

Liam was right—it’s nice here. Quaint, Zayn calls it, and Liam smiles to him approvingly. It’s everything Zayn would make it if he designed his own café; industrial lights, and soft-toned walls, abstract wooden chairing. He chooses a booth in the far corner of the room, so they can be alone, disturbed only be a barista that brings Zayn his coffee, and Liam his toast. The smell of coffee unwinds his shoulders.

“Why did you want to meet me?” Zayn asks.

“Am I not allowed to have lunch with my boyfriend?” Liam says.

Zayn takes a deep breath. He’s still not gotten used to that, having abdicated on scolding Liam for using the term that still seems so peculiar to him. A _boyfriend_. He’s twenty-eight, isn’t he supposed to be married by now? His parents deem it appropriate to remind him so whenever chance they get. So they can be grand-parents, they say, someone Zayn can give the business to when he gets older. He doesn’t want the business himself, despite willing himself, as hard as he can, to want it, to be grateful to his parents. How could he burden his future children with the premise of something he knows the weight of himself? He’ll be different.

Zayn shuffles about in the booth and scoffs to himself. A husband; he’s never even been in a relationship. At least, he thinks ironically, not a real one.

Liam says he should get used to him saying it— _boyfriend_ —since he will be saying it an awful lot on the night. He knows Liam is right, but his stubborn nature won’t approve. It makes him uncomfortable, to hear it and know it’s false. But he must remind himself that it’s his idea. What kind of man is he if he has no resolve to see through the endeavours he starts?

Liam, when Zayn tells him this, admires his self-will.

Zayn straightens his brows.

The one good thing he finds through the discomfort of this situation, is that Liam can be just as stubborn.

Liam turns his plate around and slides it over to Zayn. “Here, have this side.”

Zayn looks at it and shakes his head. “I have coffee.”

“Coffee doesn’t fill you up,” Liam says.

“I’m not hungry, then.”

“I heard your stomach rumbling in the car on the way here,” Liam says. Zayn analyses his grin; there’s nothing smug about it. “It’s just a cheese toastie. Take it.”

“No, it’s yours,” Zayn says.

“And I’m giving it to you.”

“If I want one, I’ll pay for one,” Zayn says, more harshly.

Liam sits back in his chair, and Zayn thinks he’s going to give it up. Instead, he splits the half into quarters and balances the toast on top of Zayn’s coffee mug.

“I’m drinking out of that,” Zayn says.

“Now, you’ll have to eat the toastie to get to it,” Liam says. He bites into the other piece. Facetiously, to prove a point, Zayn picks it up and drops it back on the place. “Just take it, Zayn.”  

“You’ve had your hands all over it, I don’t know where they’ve been,” he says.

Then, as he’s pulling his arms from his coat, his stomach rumbles again. Liam’s grin turns into a smirk. He implies his fingers to the toast.

Zayn sighs. “I will eat it, not because you want me to—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Liam interrupts. “Just eat it.”

Zayn eats it in three bites, realising only then how hungry he is. Liam orders another without asking him and accepts Zayn’s defeated huff as a thanks. This time, Zayn breaks the half into a quarter and hands the other piece to Liam.

“So we’re even,” he says.

Liam takes it wordlessly. Compromise.

After Zayn is finished eating, Liam slides over the booth so their thighs are touching, and he wraps an arm around the back of Zayn’s part of the booth, their sides flush to one another. Zayn pulls away, uncomfortable, but Liam’s expression is sure, confident, and, deciding to trust that and not overthink it, he leans back in. Stiff, mind you, and still uncomfortable. But he can’t deny that Liam’s presence beside him, the warmth from his body is somewhat assuring.

Liam was right. This is... nice.

“It’s a few days until the Gala. And we haven’t really practised any of the physical things,” Liam says.

Zayn’s expression hardens. “There are no necessary physical things going to be happening between us,” he says, stern. “If this is an advance on me—”

“I meant,” Liam says, “ _this_. The hand-holding, being close type of thing. Your fingers twirling in my hair, or my hold on your waist. We can’t pull off pretending to be with one another if we don’t look like stone statues when we touch.”

Zayn again, begrudgingly, admits Liam is right, and slouches further into it. He brings the scent of coffee into his nose, and his shoulders relax. “I won’t be twisting my fingers into your hair.”

“Well, that’s disappointing. It feels good, relaxing.”

“I’m not here to make you feel good. You’re here to help me,” Zayn says.

“I know that. But there’s no point in trying if it doesn’t look believable. From the outside, at least.”

Zayn takes a breath. The smell of coffee mixes in with the sweet scent of Liam’s cologne as he breathes in, and he finds it relaxes him more. He smells good. Awfully good. He doesn’t recognise when Liam’s hand shifts from the chair to gently lay across his shoulders, but it’s nice. Zayn, cautiously, as if the blue denim of Liam’s jeans are shark-infested waters, places his hand on Liam’s thigh, as far down to the knee—as far away from Liam’s crotch—as he can go without it seeming odd.

“See? I’m not so bad,” Liam jokes.

Zayn finds himself laughing. Just softly, so it fades peacefully into the quiet of the room and into nothing as the quiet jazz in the background plays on. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes it in. _Not so bad_ , he thinks. No, it’s actually rather nice. To be held this way. Gently. Openly.

Liam’s fingers draw circles on Zayn’s upper arm. His head lulls back so it’s resting on Liam’s jaw, and he can feel Liam’s heartbeat in his throat: willing and rhythmic, picking up so subtly when Zayn nuzzles his head further into the crevice of his jaw and his shoulders.

Liam slowly brings his fingers up to play with the ends of Zayn’s hair, pushing through the interwoven strands and massaging.

Like one would awake from a haunting reverie, Zayn’s eyes open wide and he straightens his back as he leans away from Liam. There’s a distance between them now. Only small: Liam could still reach out and touch Zayn’s cheek—warm, sated, flushed with the first peaks of embarrassment—if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. He stays where he is, and respects the proximity Zayn has enforced between them. Zayn gratefully sighs.

“I think that was enough,” he says. His lungs feel like they need a long, steady sweep of air. He looks to Liam. “Convincing enough?”

Liam doesn’t respond straight away. His eyes glance over Zayn, his warm skin and his slightly dishevelled hair. Zayn readjusts his shirt, feeling as though he looks like a virgin, his innocence stirred by the gentlest touches of corruption.

“Yeah, that was perfect,” Liam says, quietly. Surprised? Zayn’s brows furrow; he’s never heard Liam taken off guard. “My lunch break is nearly over, anyway. I should head back to work.”

Zayn looks to his watch. Has it really been an hour? “Your boss offers you a generous lunch break.”

Liam grins, and all the uncharacteristic shyness he wore falls away. Zayn looks him over. It’s more than a grin.

“Yes, he does.”

A silence falls on them in the car. Traffic, they find, is equally as bad returning to work as it was before. Liam tries to pry about Zayn’s successful acting in Italy, but Zayn has no answers to give him and so does what he does best: he dismisses. _You won’t find my work in this country,_ he told Liam before. _It’s all small and rural work, inconsequential here, but in Italy it’s quite huge._ Zayn had praised himself on his confident tone when he’d said it, quietening the satisfaction he felt in his chest of Liam’s belief that it was true, because he knows to think that falsity is an achievement, is wrong.

He can’t keep Liam in the dark forever, not when he’s Liam’s boss, and his office is only ten floors above his and almost everyone knows his name. There’s two things he can account for his luck: one, that his father instilled the idea of being addressed formally as Mr. Malik and not by his first name, even when he wasn’t present, so harshly that even the present workers treat Zayn with the same respect; and two, the fact that Liam is situated on one of the most secluded levels of the building with a group of newbies who would most likely not know his name, anyway.

But he knows that luck will only get him so far. He’ll tell Liam, after the Gala. He’ll have to, if Liam is to be his full-time employee. Zayn couldn’t keep his identity from Liam in that instance even if he tried his hardest to. He’s only succeeding on a foolish amount of luck as it is.

“I’m ten minutes late,” Liam says, as they pull up in front of the office building.

Zayn is glad his father chose not to plaster their family name all over the business, all over the delicate sheets of glass of the building in bold, shining letters for Liam to see. Foolish luck.

“You’re participating in a good cause,” Zayn says. “I’m sure your boss will forgive you.”

Liam opens the car door, taking his jacket into the crevice of his elbow. Then, he turns around and kisses Zayn’s cheek. It’s quick, chaste, more of a peck than anything. But Zayn’s cheek still heats, and Liam’s lips are as soft as honey.

Like a virgin, he bitterly thinks.

He wipes at his cheek, eyes glowering. “I don’t appreciate being taken off guard.”

“Practising,” is all Liam’s says. He flashes Zayn a charming grin and steps out of the car.

Zayn watches until Liam disappears behind the revolving doors. His hand, unwittingly, lingers on his cheek, at the warmth Liam has left there. He wipes it away, as if it will smudge the memory, and asks Grevin to bring the car around the back.

 

 

— + —

 

 

Zayn knocks on the front door and glances idly around the street as he waits.

It’s a nice neighbourhood, as far as the winter evening will allow him to see. But it’s adequate, he thinks, enough for him to trust that his car will be safe on the side of the street whilst he attends his business. The roads are quiet at this time of night, the cul-de-sac even more abandoned of noise. Zayn slicks his finger over the surface of the letterbox attached to the house; a frost has already begun to form.

The front door opens, and, despite it being cold enough outside for Zayn to adorn a fox fur coat, Liam opens the door bare-chested. Zayn’s eyes travel down to the waistline of his joggers that are, in his defence, far lower than the design intends and easily caught by the eye, and back up, slowly, taking in the lines of Liam’s abdomen as he goes, so they meet, eye-to-eye.

“What are you doing here?” Liam asks. He looks behind Zayn to the Bentley parked on the street. “You could’ve parked on the driveway.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and steps past Liam into the house. “I’ll invite myself in then, shall I?”

“Who said you could come in?” Liam asks.

“It’s two degrees outside. Were you going to make me stand out there in the cold?”

“Until you told me what you were doing here,” Liam says. Nevertheless, he shuts the door behind him.

Zayn looks around the living room. Plain and modern and unloved, like he’d expected. A log-fire burns on the far end of the room, and there’s no television but music plays through a system in the walls. He quirks his brows. Decent. No wonder Liam had been so fascinated with his apartment: there was actual life to it.

His disinterested eyes return to Liam, who is still waiting expectantly, half-naked, in the doorway. Zayn pulls a wallet from the pocket of his coat and holds it up for Liam to see.

“I believe this is yours,” he says.

Liam walks forward and takes it from Zayn’s hands. “You couldn’t have given this to me tomorrow?”

“There’s no saying that I would have seen you tomorrow,” Zayn says.

“That’s unlikely,” Liam says, scoffing. “Did I leave it at work?”

Zayn frowns. “What? No. Grevin found it in the back of the car. It has your initials on it, I’m assuming it’s yours.”

Liam clears his throat. “Right,” he says, and opens the wallet to flip through.

“I didn’t steal anything, if you’re checking to see if it’s all’s still there,” Zayn says, defensive. “I don’t have need to.”

“Yes, you make that very clear when you walk in here with Tod from Fox and the Hound around your neck,” Liam mumbles. Zayn looks down insecurely to the fur on his coat. “If the wallet was loose enough to fall out of my jacket, it was loose enough for something else to fall out. A credit card or something. I’m just checking it’s still there. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Fine.” Zayn pulls his coat off and sits on the armchair near the window.

“Oh, please make yourself at home,” Liam says, rolling his eyes.

“It’s warm in here.”

“Why’d you think I have no shirt on?” Liam says.

“I thought you were just doing that to be cocky,” Zayn says. “You have a habit of taking your clothes off for rich men.”

“You flatter yourself so much. Your head should be the size of a balloon,” Liam says.

“On the contrary,” Zayn says. _I’m rather insecure._

“I know,” Liam replies, looking to Zayn with honest eyes.

 _He’s doing it again,_ Zayn thinks _, staring with that guileless expression that goes straight through you_. Zayn’s arms prickle, despite the warmth.  

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” he asks.

Liam sits down on the settee opposite, sprawling his legs out in front of him into a relaxed position. “Would you like a drink? I have tea, coffee, water, or wine.”

“No, thank you. I’m not thirsty,” Zayn says, and he looks down to his nails. When his eyes return to Liam, he smirks under the subtly irritated glare. “Have I said something?”

“Why did you ask for a drink if you’re not thirsty?” Liam asks. 

“I was showing you etiquette. You always offer your guests a refreshment,” Zayn says. He kicks his one leg over the other and straightens his back.

“You didn’t offer me a refreshment,” Liam says.

“I poured you a glass of wine, what’s more refreshing than that?”

“It was noon, and I didn’t even want it.”

Zayn gives him a pointed look. “Now you’re just being ungrateful.”

Liam huffs and looks away. He grabs a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table, lights one between his lips, and throws the pack to Zayn.

Zayn catches them and, with an intentional grace, sets them down delicately on the table next to him.

Liam laughs. “You don’t want to smoke either, princess?”

“If I wanted a cigarette, I’d have one of my own. Plus, I’ve already had one,” he says.

“I know. I can smell the mint on you.”

Zayn cocks his head gently to the side. “Perceptive, aren’t you?”

Liam takes the cigarette away from his lips and blows. His eyes, under the dim lights of the room, are honeyed and on edge.

Then, he says, in a small and sure voice, “Very.”

Zayn’s heartbeat, a dim flickering in his chest, builds. It quickens, as he looks to Liam, until it’s in tantamount tempo to the music playing softly through the walls. Zayn wonders if Liam can hear it, or see it from where he’s sat through the tanned skin of his neck. It’s like a panic, deep set in his veins and makes his foot bounce in rhythmic anticipation on the floor. But it’s thrilling. Daring. It wants him to keep staring at Liam, at the hair growing in again, almost rebelliously, through the planes of his jaw. His skin looks so soft.

Liam stares at Zayn with unyielding eyes across the space between them, as if they’re daring him to do something, _anything_ , to bring them closer, so Zayn can feel that soft skin between his palms and squeeze.

Zayn brings his fists into tight balls in the hopes that his hot blood might reroute from his brazened cheeks.

When Liam blinks, Zayn stands to his feet. It really is too warm in here.

“I’m leaving,” Zayn says.

“Okay.”

As he opens the front door, a draft sweeps through Zayn’s feet. Liam is behind him as he turns, and after a moment of surprise he brings a finger to the soft skin of Liam’s chest and strokes down with his nail. In the shadows, Zayn can’t tell whether the goosebumps were there before or provoked by his touch. He has to remind himself to breath, even if Liam’s has halted.

He can’t look into Liam’s eyes, but he can kiss Liam’s cheek. So he does, taking the cigarette from Liam’s lips and bringing it to his own as he retreats.

“Just repaying,” he says quietly. “For earlier.”

He manages a glance up. Liam’s cheek is tinted, as if Zayn’s lips were a flame.

“And do you always repay favours?” Liam asks, his voice low.

“Yes,” Zayn looks him in the eyes. “It’s important to me that you know we are equals. On all factors I can control,” he says, and steps out the doorway.

“I know what you’re doing,” Liam says. “Take your coat.”

“You can give it to me another time.” Zayn grins coyly at him and turns his back. 

He offers Liam one last glance as he steps into his car. The door is still wide open, with Liam balancing in the doorway. The light from the house sways like a halo around him. Zayn glances down. Liam is stiff from the cold. And, perhaps, from the warmth of Zayn’s lips, too.

Zayn looks away. His fingers twitch around the steering wheel.

 

 

— + —

 

 

“Why did you leave so suddenly yesterday?” Cal asks. “I come to see you and you leave me alone with your sister.”

“I had someone important to meet up with,” Zayn says. He looks to Cal’s neck, his brow quirked. “Though, it looks like you weren’t too flummoxed with my absence.

Cal reaches up to his neck, looking uncharacteristically caught off guard. Then, straightening his collar, says, “Yes, I… left, not long after you. I had an arrangement with a very beautiful woman, who kept me on my back all afternoon.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Zayn brings the wine to his lips, and for some reason that makes him frown, it reminds him of Liam. The sweetness of it, perhaps. Liam always smells sweet.

“There is only a handful of times I have seen you blush, my friend,” Cal says.

Zayn’s hand comes up to his cheek. “Am I? It’s warm in here.”

“It’s moderately tempered.” Cal smirks and chews on his food. “Does this have to do with your Adam, by any chance?”

Zayn looks to him. “What?”

“Adam is synonymous to ‘your date for the Gala’,” Cal says. “I’m assuming you’ve found one. Or, you’re realising you might have some inefficient urgency below the table that’s causing you discomfort. The toilets are to the right. We men must deal with those things quickly.”

“What? No, I—” Zayn scoffs “—I don’t have a boner,” Zayn says quietly. “I don’t even…”

Cal hums. “Your medication still giving you problems? Really? I thought you would have switched it out by now.”

“This is a very private thing to be talking about in a restaurant,” Zayn says. His eyes are a warning, but Cal has never been good at discerning subtle social cues. “Besides, it works. Why would I change something that works?”

“I don’t keep anything in my life that inhibits my bedroom habits, people included,” he says. “Just slip a Viagra, you’ll be fine. I’ve seen your cock, no one will have any trouble getting it up for you. Though, I imagine they only need to see your face.”

Zayn clears his throat and straightens his posture. The wine seems more bitter on his tongue now. “I’m not having this conversation with you. Not in a restaurant, not at all.”

“Why? We’re friends. There’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

“I don’t feel comfortable having this conversation in a room full of cantankerous, middle-aged fascists,” Zayn says. He swills his wine, and then finishes it. “Why are we even here, anyway?”

“Your father bailed on lunch with you, so you invited me as your scrappy seconds,” Cal says.

“He said he was busy. Though, I’m not sure what busy entails,” Zayn says, sighing. “He’s been doing this more often.”

“Bailing on you?”

Zayn nods. “I’m trying to decide whether it’s a test or not. I know he’s fond of those.”

“Sometimes, having a conversation with your father is like rolling a dice,” Cal agrees. “I try to avoid doing it as much as possible.”

“I don’t understand why he’s so adamant on me meeting someone,” Zayn says, sighing. “It’s like he’d rather me be miserable and have what he wants than me being my own person." 

“Now, you’re just sulking. It’s noon, throw the pity party away,” Cal says. “You’re twenty-eight now, Zayn, and you’re still not in a steady relationship. I think it’s clear what he wants.”

“Does he not understand that these things take time?” he says.

Cal shrugs. “By the time your father was twenty, he’d married your mother. And by the time he was your age, he already had two children: a son to take over the family business, and a daughter to sit prudently on the side. Amery was just a postlude to their love.”

“But I want to love someone before I even decide for a moment to settle down with them, and even _ponder_ the possibility of having children. Which will likely not happen,” he mumbles, drumming the table with his fingers. Einaudi. “Does he expect me to exclude all notions of love to make him happy?”

“Zayn,” Cal begins, setting his fork down, “you’ve spent so long doing things to impress your father that he thinks you’ll do anything for him, even sacrificing the things that you desire for those obligations he expects of you. He’s older now, and he comes from a different era. An era where, perhaps, people were expected to marry without love being an option, and where fathers had to take jobs and make sacrifices they didn’t want to for the sake of their families. You’re his son: he expects the same things of you as he does himself.”

“That’s not the way things are anymore,” Zayn says.

“Maybe his brain hasn’t caught up to the times yet,” Cal replies.

“But I don’t have a family,” Zayn says.

“Yes, you do.”

Zayn gives him a pointed look. “You know what I mean. I don’t have a family of my own, that I have to provide for, and make sacrifices for.”

“No, but isn’t that part of the expectation? To have a family, to provide for someone other than yourself. He’s just trying to teach you the lessons he learnt when he was your age.”

Zayn sinks back into his chair, sulking. “If you understand what he wants so much, why don’t you be his son. I’m sure he’d enjoy it just as much. You probably have a few squealing unintended’s under your sleeve.”

“Zayn, don’t be like that,” Cal says.

“Why not? My father would be impressed. Pleased, even,” he says. “ _That_ would be a sight.”

“You’re quite humorous when you’re throwing a tantrum.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

 “Your eyes droop at the side, and your lips turn up.” Cal sighs. “You look like a puppy on the verge of yapping.”

Zayn’s eyes turn hard. “If I were anything other than myself, I’d stoop low enough to kick you underneath the table.”

“Then God bless your patronisingly superior standards.”

“Cal,” he says, “I don’t have any standards when it comes to you. Not anymore.”

“It’s probably for the best. I’d try to prove you wrong if it wasn’t so amusing to break them,” he says. “Anyway, look at it like this: it’s probably best you disappoint your father now rather than in the future.”

Zayn frowns. Disappointing his father— _willingly_? His heart thumps harshly in objection. “What do you mean?”

“Well, your precious Adam isn’t going to give you any children, is he? It’s best if you let him down slowly.”

Zayn shakes his head. His eyes are to the fine embroidery on the tablecloth and the gentle ripples in the fabric. “I never said it was—” he pauses “—there’s no point in assuming anything is serious at this point.”

“You don’t think you’re in for the long haul?” Cal asks, frowning.

“I’m curious as to why you look so confused,” Zayn says. “When have I ever been with someone long-term?”

“I do recall a summer in Vegas where things became pretty convoluted,” Cal says.

Zayn waves him off, groaning. “You know that’s not—I mean, truly, wanting to be with someone. There’s never been anyone,” he says.

“Well, that’s why I thought it might be different this time,” Cal says. “You’ve never introduced anyone to your family before. You’ve never actually introduced anyone to me. I’ve just always happened to walk in on it.”

“That’s because you don’t know how to knock.”

“The circumferential definitions of personal space and privacy are still something I’m working vehemently on,” Cal says. He shifts his glass into the light. “This wine is good. Do you think they’ll allow me the bottle?”

“They’ll allow you anything, if you ask, Callum. You’re rich.”

He grumbles, “My parents’ are rich. You and I are in the same boat, my friend.”

“Not anymore,” Zayn says. “Since I own the company now, my father is legally allowing me to keep fifty percent shares. I make my own millions.”

“Good for you. I imagine it’s nice to not feel tied down with financial obligation.”

Zayn shakes his head. “No matter how long I own the company, it will always feel like it’s theirs, and at the end of the day they think it will always be. I’m a hired occupancy, when it comes down to it.”

“I don’t think you should look at it like that,” Cal says.

“Then, how should I look at it?”

“Like you own your own fucking business.”

“That’s the point: I don’t.”

“Sure you do, Zayn.”

Zayn laughs derisively. “Don’t be absurd, Cal. If I died tomorrow, and in my will, it said give it to—” Zayn has to pause to stop himself saying Liam. Cal looks to him expectantly. “To _Adam,_ they would not respect my wish.”

“No, because that’s ridiculous. It’s a family-owned business, one your father callused his own hands for to be what it is today,” Cal says. “Only an idiot would hand over a business so rich in family heritage to a man you’d be dating for, what, a few weeks?”

“But that is my point. If I died, they would not think about respecting the wishes of my will because they believe it’s wrong. They would think that, if I were to pass, the things that I owned would be returned to them. But that’s not how things work. They couldn’t take back something that wasn’t theirs because they wanted it back. You can’t refund this shit.”  

“Zayn, you sound ridiculous,” Cal says, rolling his eyes.

“The company is not mine. They just think they’re doing something nice for me, when, in fact, they have their hands at the end of the rug and are ready to rip it out from under me,” Zayn says.

“And that’s why you won’t dedicate yourself to running the business?”

Zayn unwinds his shoulders and sips his wine. The room is quieter now. Lunch is nearly over. A couple in the corner of the room lean into each other’s arms and laugh, and Zayn finds himself watching intensely as the woman nuzzles her head into the crook of her lover’s jaw. Zayn takes a sharpened breath through his nose and tries not to be reminded of Liam.

It’s been two days. He wonders if Liam is still naked, sprawled out on a settee; if he’s been sprawled out naked on a settee for anyone else. He wonders if Liam skin is still as soft, or if it’s been bitten away by some hungry sycophant draped in green. He imagines Liam in his bed, stroking his own cock between frustrated fingers, because Zayn told him not to touch anyone else, and he’s obedient.

He wonders if his fur coat is still draped over the edge of Liam’s chair, if Liam pressed his nose to the fabric to remember what Zayn smells like. Perhaps he took it to the bedroom.

Zayn misses his coat.

“I haven’t invested myself in the business because I don’t fucking care about heating. Who cares about heating? It’s like… owning a water company. It’s integral, but is anyone really that interested?” Zayn says.

“No, but it was a smart move. There are three and a half million houses in London alone, and almost all of them will have some form of heating. It’s intrusive, but smart.”

“Of course it’s smart,” Zayn says. “My parents’ aren’t billionaires for nothing.”

“The only perk of having your parents own a water is company is that you get free water for life. I suppose, inheriting the millions won’t be too annoying, either,” he says, cockily. Then, his eyes widen, as if remembering. “You did not tell me that Liam got a job at your company.”

A hitch in Zayn’s breath falters his composure, but only for a moment. Then it returns, irate. He’s an idiot for not seeing this one coming.

Deciding it’s best to feign indifference, Zayn says, “Who?”

“You know, Liam.” Cal wiggles his brows. “The hot piece I spent the night with. Once a fortnight with him is not merely enough. I hadn’t been able to get a hold of him, now I know why.”

“Oh,” Zayn says. “He has a job at the company? I hadn’t imagined a prostitute to have the education or skills to take up a full-time job.”

“Part-time. He’s one of your new interns. And, no, I suppose not. I suppose he’s more than a pretty face,” Cal says, smirking. “Well, of course, I knew this. That face alone can do great things.”

Zayn shifts in his seat. “I don’t imagine anyone you affiliate yourself with like that can possibly be capable of great things.”

“Don’t be so judgemental. He’s smart. He started waffling on about some English shit once. I had to shut him up.”

“By putting your cock in his mouth?” For some reason, the thought makes Zayn squirm, and he takes a sip of the untouched water to moisten his mouth as it dries in distaste.

“I have never pretended to be transparent.”

“You don’t need to, you’re predicable,” Zayn says. Cal shrugs. “And what were you doing skulking about my new interns, anyway? They’re to serve me, not you.”

“The service you offer is different to that of mine, friend.”

Zayn frowns. “Keep your meandering to strip clubs and whore houses. My business is not a honey jar for your cock.”

“So, it’s _your_ business now?”

Zayn looks Cal up and down with contemptuous eyes. “Sometimes, I wonder why we’re friends.”

“You liked my weed in college, and I gave you discounts.”

“The only thing you were good at,” Zayn mumbles. He folds out his wallet and lays his card out on the table. A waiter is seconds behind to claim it. “I have to go back to work.”

“How do we always come for lunch, and yet you never eat anything?” Cal asks.

“I don’t have an appetite.”

“Change the Celexa. It’s not doing you any favours.”

“If I want your opinion on my mental health, I’ll ask you. Until then,” Zayn says and stands to his feet. “From now on, you must call me before you wish to visit me at work.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve always come to visit you,” Cal says. “I suppose, Amery won’t be treated this way.”

“Amery is my sister,” Zayn says.

Cal sits back. “Am I not your brother?”

“Not by blood. And not if you’re going to try and harass my workers. Stay off the ninth floor. You’re allowed to my office, and to the lavatories if you wish to top up whatever you’re having this week. I have to at least make it seem like I’m exercising some effort,” Zayn says. _And, hopefully, it will keep you away from Liam._ “And I don’t mean call when you’re stood outside my office door. Book an appointment slot with Julie. It won’t be difficult, I have a sparse schedule.”

Then, he leaves. They’ve never been one for goodbyes.

The winter air bites at Zayn’s cheeks and brazens them warm. Instead of getting in the car waiting for him, he leans on the doors and lights a cigarette, letting the cold weather numb his fingers. Zayn looks up, around him. It’s foggy out, but the couple in the window with the sparkling eyes are still clear as the glass separating them from him.

He pulls his phone out and reread’s the text from his father.

_Sorry, can’t make it. We’ll reschedule._

Zayn pushes out the tight feeling in his chest and sighs. His fingers, reddened at the tips and stiff from cold, hover over the button for a moment before deleting the text. There is no hesitation as he opens a new message and texts Liam instead. 

_Meet me._

 

 

— + —

 

 

The maroon door peels away like a scab as it opens, and Liam looks just as grimacing as one who’s had it ripped away as he eyes Zayn up and down.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Zayn, for a moment, falters. “I messaged you.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Liam says.

Zayn twiddles his thumbs in the silence. “So, you’re expecting me?”

“No one ever visits me here. You’re the only one who knows where I live. I don’t expect anyone but the post man,” Liam says. It sounds like a goodbye, but Liam moves from the door and makes a path for Zayn to follow him in.

Zayn shuts the door behind him. His coat is hung up in the hallway.

“Take it with you this time,” Liam says.

“Why didn’t you bring it to me?” Zayn asks.

Liam lounges on the settee, leaning back against the cushions, one leg sprawled out in front of him and the other tucked in close. His arms hook around the frame of the settee. As he looks to Zayn, there’s a glint of something charmingly provocative in his eyes—the look of someone who knows that which they shouldn’t and keeping it from escape is like holding thorns under their tongue.

“I would’ve been late for work, if I did that. I don’t think my boss would have appreciated the tardiness,” he says.

Zayn almost smiles. “I don’t think your boss would have cared about a few minutes. Not when my precious fur coat was on the line, smearing with all those other coats over there in the hallway.”

“You sound so sure about that,” Liam says.

“I am.”

“But what if I was fired?”

“You wouldn’t have been. Your boss must be some deluded, arrogant, middle-aged fascist to care so greatly about a few minutes,” Zayn says.

“I could have done a lot in those few minutes,” Liam says.

Zayn dares to ask, “Like what?”

The quirk at the edge of Liam’s lips grows into a smirk, until he’s brushing them with the end of his fingertips to hide them from view. When he pulls away, they’re rhubarbed and puckered from the tension. It’s a task for Zayn to keep his eyes away.

Liam, however, makes no effort to keep his eyes anywhere. They travel from Zayn’s eyes and down, past the ribbed effort of the turtleneck that covers his skin, the red corduroy lining of his jacket, over his crossed legs, his pointed gloss shoes, and back up, where Zayn is waiting expectantly for him, schooling his quickened breath to not show through his skin.

“You look ridiculously rich,” Liam murmurs.

Zayn hums. “I always look like this. Though, I haven’t been able to find the outfit that expresses how much I’m truly worth. So far.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it one day. A man with as pretty a face as you, I imagine, doesn’t struggle too hard to make anything he wants to seem like the best,” Liam says.

“No. We’ve never had that struggle.”

Liam raises a brow. “We?”

“My family and I. We’ve always had the best, nothing less. Papa ensured it.”

“Well, at least you’re making a name for yourself,” Liam says. “Being a successful actor, you know. You’re not just one of those pups who suckles on their parent’s fortune."

Zayn clears his throat. “No.”

“I’m surprised you’re not too busy. Actors seem like they live a hectic life,” he says.

“No busier than you,” Zayn says. “In fact, you probably work more. Being an actor is more of a seasonal thing, you get a job and then it’s over. Yours is constant.”

“And I still get paid less,” Liam jokes. “I’ve never been to Italy. I’ve never been out of the country. I went to Inverness once with my family, but that’s as far as I’ve been.”

“I’ll take you, someday, if you’d like,” Zayn says, and then thinks he may have gone too far. But Liam’s eyes light up at the seams as he watches, and he know that he can’t take it back. His best bet is to just hope that, by the time this is all over, he’s forgotten the offer. Then, as though Zayn’s brain is not in tune with his tongue, he adds, “Venice is beautiful, and Rome, of course.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Liam says.

Zayn curses himself in his mind.

In the silence that follows, Liam’s brows raise as if he’s remembered something. He stands to his feet.

“Where are my manners?” he asks. Zayn can’t help but feel he’s being derisive. “Would you like a drink? I have tea.”

“Coffee would be better,” Zayn says.

Zayn wanders the—very limited—interior of the room for those few minutes he waits, posing over stray décor on the walls and following the minimal pattern on the leather settee with his eyes until he gets bored. He ventures to the kitchen and stops in the doorway when he sees Liam. His hands are against the worktop, his body leaning away, his back to Zayn. His feet are crossed, and the shadows of sinews on his shoulders show through the thin material of his white shirt. Zayn swallows and steps forward. His breathing, although can hardly be heard over the workings of the coffee machine, is heavier than usual, as if he’s straining against a thought or an ache.

Zayn’s feet on the tiled floor of the kitchen startle Liam, and the spoon on his hand clatters to the marble of the counter as he turns around.

Zayn gives him a very uncharacteristically reassuring smile. “Sorry.  I thought I’d join you. You were taking a while.”

“I’m making your coffee,” Liam says.

“It doesn’t take them this long for workers to make it at starbucks,” Zayn says, comically.

“I suppose you don’t wait at all for your drinks, do you?” Liam asks.

“No. You’re the only person who’s kept me waiting,” Zayn says.

Liam looks to him, his face conflicted, and, deciding it’s for the best, looks away again, as if mitigating the words on his tongue. Instead, he says, “I don’t drink coffee often. It’s not one of the latest machines. You have to wait for the water to heat up.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” Zayn says, and leans against the counter. “You just get used to not having to.”

Liam’s eyes move along Zayn again, and Zayn lets him. He doesn’t know what Liam finds as he wanders across his shoulders, his waist, travelling up along his jaw, to his lips, but Liam’s gaze makes him feel as though there’s already hot coffee pooling in his stomach.

Then, Liam straightens his back and moves closer, holding out a hand. “Come here,” he says, gently.

Zayn takes the hand without question. Liam’s arm winds around Zayn’s waist and holds him close, so close that if it wasn’t for the barrier of Zayn’s free hand being placed on Liam’s chest their bodies would be flush. Zayn finds his other hand encircling Liam’s shoulders, gripping on tight to the shirt. Their eyes meet. Zayn takes a breath.

“I have to be honest,” Liam whispers, “I had to take a minute for myself. Sitting in a room with you is overwhelming.”

Liam’s hand on his waist tightens, whilst the other, cold at the tips but soft, like the of sand, smooth against the stubble along Zayn’s jaw.

Zayn swallows. “Am I that attractive?”

“It’s not that. You are just… entirely provocative. I either want to be mad at you, laugh at you, or kiss you. My mind won’t stay still when I look at you,” Liam admits. His fingers, as they explore, tint Zayn’s skin. “It’s like staring into a flame.”

“Come, now, Liam,” Zayn begins, “I am one man, one that you’ve known for barely a fortnight. I’m sure you’ve met your fair share of men that make your thoughts go overboard.”

“Yes,” he says. Then, “With you, it’s different. I can’t be who I usually am. I have to be someone different,” he says.

Zayn frowns. “I never asked you to be someone different.”

“Zayn, that is what you are asking of me, completely,” he says. “I’m an escort. But you’re… asking me to be your lover, your… You’re asking me to be the other half of you.”

“But you don’t have to be false,” Zayn says.

Liam laughs and removes his hands. A rush of cold sweeps over Zayn, a hint of rejection that stills his breath. He moves his hands back down to his side and watches Liam with disconcerted brows. 

“What I am doing is entirely false,” he says.

“Is it much different to your job?” Zayn asks. “Throw on a persona, pretend to be enjoying yourself, and you go home at the end of the night with a pocket full of money.”

Liam shakes his head. “I enjoy my job.” When Zayn snorts, he continues, “I know it’s not the most glamorous job, but it’s fun. It’s thrilling to be able to see people in their most vulnerable moments, to be the one to achieve those endeavours.”  

Zayn narrow his eyes. “I want to reiterate, that won’t be a part of our deal.”

“Why would you feel the need to reiterate that?” Liam asks.

“Because, we were just…” Zayn’s cheeks flush.

“Did you think that I was going to—” Liam begins, then pauses. “What did you think I was going to do?”

Zayn eyes Liam up and down, and, when he finds nothing to criticise, he moves them around the kitchen, situating downwards to the marble counter. Liam’s hand is there, resting on the side, his fingers twitching as though they want to reach out. Zayn remains amazingly still.

Then, after a silence of listening to the raucous humiliation in his chest, he says, “The coffee is done.”

“Would you still like some, or are you planning on leaving again?” Liam asks.

“I’ll stay,” Zayn says, quietly, his mouth dry. He swallows and reaches to take Liam’s hand in his. “It’s a ball, if you didn’t know.”

“A what?”

“The Gala. It’s a meal, followed by a ball—a fancy party-type thing.”

“I know what a ball is, Zayn,” he says, laughing.

“There’s an auction after the meal, to raise money for a charity of our choosing. We haven’t decided the charity yet,” Zayn says. “The meal is just for show, to get everyone in one room and conversing. My parents’ take the time to peruse and kneed people into donating. It’s quite manipulative.”

“Apples don’t fall far from the tree, do they?”

Zayn looks up with the intent of scorning him, but Liam’s lips are turned up into a boyish smile, his eyes light and crinkled at the sides, and a ray of light enters the room. Zayn can’t help but grin.

“Don’t push your luck,” Zayn mumbles. He takes a step closer, his palm finding the spot where it lay before and pressing down to feel the heat of skin underneath. “The Gala is in three days.”

Liam holds Zayn close by the small of his back. “Yes,” he says, slow.

His breath is hot as it fans down Zayn’s cheeks, their lips inches apart. “Do you remember everything you need to know?”

“Not when you’re looking at me like that.”

Zayn inhales. Liam’s fingers begin small circles on his skin. There’s a rush of sweet spice through his nose, and Liam’s cologne is pulling him in further. Zayn’s hand clings around Liam’s shoulder, where the opening to his shirt is droopy and allows Zayn’s fingers to contact soft skin. He closes his eyes.

“You smell good,” Zayn says. “Viktor?”

“And Rolf.”

“You do have good taste in something, then.”

“It’s been known to happen.”

Zayn hums, and his eyes open to the delicate bone on Liam’s collar, the fine skin pulling taut against the flesh and glistening under the light. An instinct pulls Zayn’s lips towards it, and he’s not paused in his attempt to do so. His mouth meets the bottom of Liam’s neck and he tastes the sweetness of Liam’s wash on his tongue. He nips at the skin, trailing further up Liam’s neck, his head leaning forward so Zayn has easier access to the skin waiting for him, until he reaches a spot that makes Liam’s hands tighten on his waist.

He focuses all his attention to that one spot, just below Liam’s jaw, where he moans as Zayn bites down onto the skin, pulls him closer. Liam’s tone is saccharine—like honey trickling from his lips. His hand creeps down over Zayn’s waist and over the curve of his backside, their skin being held apart only by the thin material of Zayn’s trousers. A part of Zayn wishes he’d worn silk—the Gucci trousers in his drawer that just drop finely over his curves, where you can still feel every bump and swill of the skin underneath, so fine that he’d be able to feel the calluses in Liam’s hands as they palm him and cup him closer.

“Are you marking me, darling?” Liam roughs out. “I’m not usually the one taking.”

Zayn pulls away, only a fraction, so he can speak. “Who says I’m giving?”

“If this is you not giving, then I don’t ever want to see you at your most generous,” Liam says. “I think, that would be lethal.”

Zayn bites at the skin again for good measure, even though the bruise has already formed; a lurid blue across the usual gentle tan of Liam’s skin. He moves back fractionally to admire it; Liam will have to wear a turtleneck higher than Zayn’s in order to hide it in such an awkward place.

Liam nudges Zayn so his back is to the counter, their legs intertwined in a criss-cross manner. He goes back to kiss Liam’s skin, lapping his tongue over the mark repeatedly, gently, just because he can. Because the sound of Liam’s moans as they whisper Zayn’s name slowly release a buzz into Zayn’s veins, like the tinge of ecstasy as a high claims its peak, and every moan is a hit.

Liam’s fingers wrap underneath the band of Zayn’s trousers, and Zayn pulls away once he realises what’s happening. He directs Liam’s lips to his cheek as they come towards him, and Liam’s mouth makes a descent of its own as it unwinds like a spiral down Zayn’s jaw. Liam’s touches are desperate but not aggressive, the sex-stained hands of a dirty man coming out to play. A man who, a realisation that hits Zayn like a gust of heavy wind, has much more experience than him. A man who has made his cock very hard—something that, nowadays, he struggles to do himself.

“You’re right,” Zayn says, breathless, “I should go.”

“You’ve only just got here,” Liam replies, his voice muffled by Zayn’s skin and his own desire.

“It’s 5pm, I’ve been here an hour. I really should go,” Zayn says, but he makes no intent to move away.

His fingers are rough in the bottom of Liam’s hair, his nails scraping along his neck. And Liam’s mouth feels so good, and his hands are so close to Zayn’s crotch that Zayn finds himself lifting a leg up Liam’s thigh so the angle is better, so Liam can press himself closer. He’s pleased to find that Liam is just as aroused as him, so he won’t have to be the only one to pull away with the bitter taste of something unfinished in his mouth.

A part of him wants to continue, a part that, perhaps, has not been touched this way in a long time and is desperate to seek an end. Like a monster, peering it’s head around a corner after being trapped for so long, wickedly prepared for a chase. It goads him, whispers into his ear words he can barely perceive behind the sound of Liam’s pathetic, soft whines.

As if the whole thing is a falling sequence of dominoes, Zayn pulls Liam’s hands away from him as they threaten to cup his crotch, knowing if he doesn’t pull away now he’ll allow it to continue, and he hasn’t had a spare moment between frustration and pleasure to decide if he wants that or not.

Or, perhaps, questions have answered themselves, and Zayn relishes in ignoring them. 

Liam’s gestures stop almost immediately, something that makes admiration peak it’s tepid head in Zayn’s chest. He expected a grab, perhaps one last chance to cling to something he knows he can’t have, like most men do. But… that doesn’t happen. Liam’s hands fall to the side, and whilst his chest is heaving with heavy breath and the silhouette of his cock pushes out against the thin material of his joggers, he remains still, a pace away, allowing Zayn his own space.

“Did I do something wrong?” Liam asks after a beat.

A flicker of arousal turns into frustration in his veins. “I told you, this wasn’t going to happen.”

“I’m not the one who instigated it,” Liam says, calmly.

“You could have stopped me.”

He only shrugs. “Why would I do that? You didn’t seem to want to. And I’d be lying if I stood here and said I didn’t want to, either. You knew what you were doing.”

Zayn doesn’t want to admit that Liam is right; so he doesn’t. Instead, the anger turns on him, for being so reckless, and his heart picks up again in fear. When did he allow himself to lose control like that—over someone he doesn’t even know.

“I started it, and now I’m ending it,” he says, voice low. “I… don’t want it to happen again.”

“You don’t sound too sure of that,” Liam says.

“It won’t happen again,” Zayn says, his voice sure and demanding; duplicitous, manipulating even himself. Trying to. “It won’t. Don’t waste your time thinking it will.”

“Okay,” Liam says.

Zayn runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. He stands straight, irons his clothes with his hands, and, when he faces Liam again, he knows he looks as composed as a mirror; like nothing happened. But Zayn can already feel the mark the counter has left on his back, and how it will remind him tomorrow.

It’s easy enough to ignore the uncomfortable rubbing of his arousal against the lining of his trousers, but when his eyes land on the purplish hue, his own saliva, still slick and glistening under the light against Liam’s honeyed skin, he feels his cock pulse.

Liam just stands there, making no attempt to regather himself or cover his painfully aware arousal with a hand. He just stares at Zayn, greedily, as though he might come any moment.

“I’m sorry that you wasted your coffee on me,” Zayn says.

“No,” Liam says, “you’re not.”

He’s right. It’s just coffee.

Zayn smooths his fingers down the lines of his jacket and steps towards Liam. He circles Liam’s neck with his hand and pulls him closer, leaving just the trace of his lips along Liam’s cheek in a kiss that’s barely there at all. Liam doesn’t dare reach out. When he pulls away, Liam’s cheeks are pinked, the skin above his moustache dabbed with a glisten of sweat, like Zayn’s touch has made the kitchen a sauna.

“Just practising?” Liam says, his voice raspy.

“Would you like to imagine it that way?” Zayn strokes Liam’s cheek and steps away. “I’ll let myself out.”

Liam follows him, anyway. He hands Zayn his coat.

“No goodbye?” Liam asks.

Zayn steps out the door and turns to look at Liam, his eyes a reflection of a dark annoyance, a disappointment—a loss that isn’t pushed in by the winter breeze.

“I never say goodbye.”

Zayn makes sure his car is around the corner, out of sight, before he pulls onto the side of the road, stalling the engine. His skin is itching to be touched, and he palms himself over his trousers to find some relief from the ache. The urge to turn back around, to barge into Liam’s house and demand him to touch him, anywhere, is deafening.

It’s been so long since he’s had this that he seems desperate enough to become a foreign version of himself in order to get it, to chase it like it’s the last breath of air in the car.

When the touch of his hands over his trousers isn’t enough, he slips them down over his thighs and brings himself into his hands, stroking himself, moaning, pretending his fingers are someone else’s, lost in a tight grip of hair whilst he looks down and watches, instead of eyes pierced shut and jaw tight with fantasy. His free hand grabs on to the wheel with a fierce grip, squeezing like it’s a lifeline, a grapple; a tanned thigh hooked around his waist. In the dark, it’s just him, and he can be as loud as he wants.

He comes across his hand, white, hot spurts of pleasure, as he moans out Liam’s name into the dark.

 

 

— + —

 

 

Zayn wonders, as he’s sat around the table with his family, why they have dinner together every Wednesday. He wonders, if it’s exclusively family, why Cal and Queenie’s boyfriend are invited. He wonders, rather immaturely, how his father has time for a two-hour dinner on a Wednesday night but not a thirty-minute lunch with him at any time of the week.

He sips on his wine and wonders if they’d allow Liam to come along, to sit with them at the table and pretend to be family. He swats the thought away like an irritating fly. Liam doesn’t belong at their family table. Having Liam sit next to him at the Gala, like some interloper at the table, will be strange, but something he can tolerate for a night. His family, however, can be easily sensitive, and the closer the Gala comes the more aware Zayn becomes of the fact that he doesn’t know how they’re going to react to Liam, and he has no way to control it.

“Where is Callum?” Zayn’s father asks.  

“Nursing a hangover,” Zayn says. “He had a long night.”

“And so did you, by the looks of it,” he replies. “I thought you couldn’t drink with your medication.”

“I can’t, Papa. I mean, I don’t. But I take it in the morning, it wears off by late evening,” Zayn says.

“Do you think it’s responsible to stay out drinking all night, when you have work the next day?”

His father’s tone remains inflectionless, his expression and demeanour as calm as untainted water, though Zayn hears the warning laced in his words. He doesn’t even look up to Zayn, too busy with the food on his plate. It only means that he can’t see the lost look on Zayn’s face, to which he’s glad. His father would only think he looked pathetic and tell him so.

He catches his mother’s sympathetic eyes from across the table.

Zayn begins to speak, but falters.

“If you have something to say, Zayn, spit it out,” he says.

“Oh, Yaser, leave him alone,” his mother says. “Zayn is a young boy. You were, too, once.”  

“He is twenty-eight, Tricia, he is not a young boy anymore. He’s a man,” he says, as if Zayn isn’t sat close enough to hear. “When I was his age, I was running a company.”

“Running it into the ground,” Amery snorts. The eyes around the table fall on her. She catches their father’s attention. “Oh, daddy, I’ve read the reports, don’t worry. You run a very successful business now, but it wasn’t always that way.”

“I run it now,” Zayn mumbles under his breath.

“What was that?” his father asks.

“Nothing, Papa.”

Everyone returns to their food, apart from Zayn, who, unsurprisingly, has lost his appetite. He looks across the table to Queenie and her boyfriend, Adam, who have also abandoned their food in turn for inconspicuous and unsubtle touches.

They’re not allowed to kiss at the dinner table—Papa has made that clear—but by the way they’re looking at one another, they might as well be fucking on silk throw. Adam is very clearly touching her thighs (Zayn is glad he can’t see further than the surface of the table) and Queenie is actually… smiling. Giggling, almost, in silent open-mouthed expressions and bright eyes.

Zayn frowns, as if looking at something completely odd, and leans in to Amery. “Is it just me or does Queenie look… unusual, today?” he whispers.

“If you mean she isn’t participating in her usual bitchiness or glaring at everyone at the table like they’re vermin, then yes, I do,” she replies.

“It’s almost… kindness,” Zayn muses. He brings his eyes down to his plate when Queenie catches them staring. “I would say it’s nice to see her face in anything but a contemptuous scowl, but I know she’ll only gripe at me later.”

“It’s not unwarranted,” Amery says. She leans in closer, so Zayn is the only one who can hear her. “Apparently, she found an engagement ring. Though, there’s no sign of it yet.”

“An engagement ring?” Zayn wants to roll his eyes. “They’ve known each other six months. That’s not enough time to experience the entirety of Queenie’s wrath.”

Amery hums. “The poor fool. He doesn’t know what he’s getting himself in to. She must have him under her foul spell.”

“So, she confronted him about the ring, and he’s proposed,” Zayn says.

Zayn glances over to Queenie, who’s fingers are palming up and down the side of Adam’s suited bicep, plain and diamond-free. Amery is right—there’s no ring yet. But they’re already acting like newly-weds. 

“Perhaps she decided not to wear it, just in case daddy sees,” she says.

“It’s a wise decision, we all know he isn’t fond of Adam,” Zayn says, eyeing everyone at the table.

His mother passes unsure glances at the pair every so often but says nothing; their father, as usual, looks more interested in his steak than his children.

“Has no one noticed they’re acting strange?”

“Everyone has. Even the driver gave Queenie an odd look as they walked in. I think she must have thanked him,” she says and turns to Zayn with amusement. “You’re the last one to figure it out.”

“Were you not going to tell me?” he asks.

Amery smirks. “Sometimes, you are completely oblivious. It’s entertaining to see all the cogs turn in your mind. I would have told you, eventually. Or, perhaps, I wouldn’t. Maybe I would’ve waited to see your expression when he proposed at the Gala.” She quietly laughs. “You’d have no idea.”

“The Gala?” Zayn asks.

“You don’t think it would have been the perfect moment? An extravagant ball with everyone watching. It’d be her idea, of course. She would have planted it in his brain. They might still do it.”

“Why would they? They’re already engaged,” Zayn grumbles.

“Zayn, don’t be stupid. This is our sister we’re talking about. She’ll settle for nothing less. She’ll make a show of it, break the news to mommy and daddy that way. Make sure she outshines everyone,” she says. “Though, with your new hunk trailing about after you like a puppy, her wish might not come true.”

For a moment, Zayn’s heart breaks down into silence, and then restarts, twice as fast. For a moment, he fears that his secrecy has been exposed for the shamble that it is; that she didn’t heed his orders of leaving the interns alone long enough for Liam to remain his undiscovered little secret. It takes him only a few seconds to remember that Amery is his sister, and he understands her enough to know she isn’t one to keep a secret and would have blurted her mouth to him the moment she found out.

Zayn takes a sharp breath through his nose: Amery doesn’t know, she’s just being her inadvertent self.

“If that’s true, I wouldn’t put it past her to kill me,” Zayn says, quietly, their mother’s eyes now on them. “Or, at least, tie me up and lock me in a cupboard for a few hours.”

“And ruin her manicure? No. She’d have someone else do it for her,” Amery says, amused.

“And that is all the more reassuring,” Zayn says. “Looking at them has made me lose my appetite.”

“Don’t pretend like you were going to eat it, anyway,” Amery says. She delves her fork into his untouched salad. “You need to eat more.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Zayn grumbles.

“She’s right, darling,” his mother says. Her smile is endearing. “You’ve lost weight.”

“It’s the medication, Mama,” Zayn says, his voice small, eyes on the table. An embarrassment flushes over him. “I don’t have an appetite.”

“He fills the voids with coffee and cigarettes,” Queenie joins in. “He’s living every high-school girl’s dream. How pathetically tragic.”

“You should talk with the doctor and request a different medication,” Yaser says. “It’s important you’re strong, resilient to life. For the future.”

Amery whispers to him, “He means your seed.”

Zayn kicks her leg under the table.

“He’s not a warrior, Yaser,” Tricia says. “But your father is right, Zayn.”

He shakes his head. “I’m used to the medication. Having to change means going through the whole thing again. It’s not worth the hassle. I’ve already had this conversation with Cal.”

Amery turns to him, frowning. “You’ve seen Cal?”

“Of course I have, he’s my friend,” he says.

She turns back to her food with a nod. Zayn is almost certain worry strikes her face, but it morphs into complacency before Zayn can discern it.

“We want what’s best for you, Zayn,” his mother says.

Zayn ignores the fact that, despite his mother talking on behalf of both, his father can’t find the effort to look up to him, to even try and pretend that he’s listening. The twinge in his chest is too commonplace for him to dwell on it. So, he looks to his mother and smiles, appreciatively, instead.

“I know, Mama.”

“How is your date?” she asks. “Is she still on track to attend the Gala with you? It’s odd to think we haven’t met her yet, so close to the date.”

The travel of Amery’s fork back down to her plate slows, as if in slow motion, and she glances to him from the corner of her eye. Zayn takes a breath and thinks, rather sardonically, that it’s a shame Cal couldn’t make it tonight. The look on his friend’s face would have been the consolation to this moment.

“Yes, _he_ is,” Zayn says, and allows a pause to take a gulp of wine. He adds, just in case anyone misheard him, “I picked up his suit yesterday.”

The whole table quietens. Zayn even thinks, absurdly, that it infects the few small tables scattered around them and encumbers the air in the room. Amery hides her glimmering smugness behind the rim of her glass, whilst Zayn’s words settle among the table. Queenie stops the dismantling of her fiancé’s composure, and Adam is staring at him in a way that, even more absurdly—because he never pays Zayn attention— he has never before; not in shock, or distaste, but like a common colour. It makes Zayn uncomfortable, so he looks away, to his mother, who is looking at him in surprise, not of—he knows—what he’s said, but the venue in which he’s decided to express it.

His father, for the first time this evening, has paused. He still does not look up to meet Zayn’s eyes.

Zayn swallows.

Amery sits her glass down on the table harder than she should.

“Oh, come on,” she begins, sounding bored, though Zayn knows she’s anything but, “it’s not like this is a coming out. We’ve all known. It’s no new information. I’m surprised he hasn’t fucked Cal by now.”

“Language, Amery,” his father says, voice quiet.

Zayn should be afraid. But, despite the erratic motion of his heart, he’s not. Amery is as sufficient protection as a hound of pit-bull’s.

“What’s his name, darling?” his mother asks.

Zayn smiles, then realisation dawns. Amery can be like a shark at the scent of blood, and he wouldn’t put it past any of his family to run backgrounds checks on anyone he’s affiliated with. The idea of his family discovering that the partner of their precious mogul son is a prostitute sends a flare of embarrassment to his cheeks at the thought. They would be bound to abandon him after that. His father’s pride would not be able to bear the shame.

Spontaneously—as in, his usual procedure for making important decisions—he says, “James.”

“Just James?”

“Yes.”

Zayn credits himself for reading Liam’s file.

His father is still silent, staring at the remaining food on his plate as though it mocks him. His fists are white, and Zayn has to strain to see if he’s breathing.

“I’m sure he’s lovely. I know you wouldn’t pick anything but the best,” Tricia says.

“I think you’ll find it’s the other way round, mother. He’s probably having a hard time putting up with Zayn and his freakish nature,” Queenie comments.

“Shut up,” Zayn says, his tone almost harsh. A picture of Liam rolling his eyes, irritated, flashes in his mind. “You don’t know anything, Queenie.”

“I don’t need to,” she says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole thing was a pretence to steal some attention.”

“You’re deflecting, sis,” Amery says.

“Please, keep your mouth shut, Amery,” she snaps, in a flicker of spite, “And if you’re going to try and hide the signs of your whorish nature, at least do a better job of it,” Queenie snaps.

Instinctively, Amery’s hand flies up to her neck, where she skims her fingers along the space of skin that’s target to Queenie’s pressure. Zayn has never seen Amery blush before or look awkward in her own skin—he can check that off the list, tonight.

“Girls, please stop,” Yaser says. His knuckles whiten further in their tight grip before releasing, and he goes back to his food like nothing has happened. The large gulp of whiskey he takes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m sure Zayn is old enough to make his own responsible, smart choices, like his mother has said. I’m sure James is a lovely boy.”

“Man,” Zayn corrects.

Yaser pauses and then continues.

“We’ll be looking forward to meeting him,” his mother says.

“I bet he’s a hunk,” Amery says. “Has he got big arms? Do they wrap around you tight?”

Zayn bites his lip—for effect—and suppresses the urge to say yes. Instead, he says, “That’s none of your business.”

Zayn looks to his left to find all heads beside him turned in his direction, like a crowd of meerkats, peering around to find the source of danger. Whilst Queenie looks resentful, most likely cursing him in her head for spoiling her elated, post-engagement mood, Adam is still staring at him. Even Amery isn’t smirking in her usual blasé fashion.

It’s not often that Zayn feels lonely in the company of his own family—not when Amery’s companionship shields him from any oncoming concern. But he feels, within a void, that he’s completely alone, like a ghost hovering above a moment at the table, and no one dares look in case they seem him.

In a moment of weakness, he wishes Liam was sat beside him.

 

 

— + —

 

 

“Just James.”

Zayn looks up to Cal from behind his desk. “Yes.”

“Is he hot?”

“He is very attractive.”

“Is he attractive, like, ‘ _I wanna put my cock in your mouth at first sight and thrust’_ or in a _‘he’s cute and kind and affectionate, and I want to cuddle all night and let him go down on me in the morning_?’”

Zayn bites the inside of his lip, frowning. _You’ve already done that_ , he almost says, and then takes a moment to try and figure out which Liam is. (Both.)

He stays silent, not trusting his tongue. He’s thinking, perhaps, it wasn’t a good thing to tell Cal after all. The Gala is tomorrow, and even his preposterous lying isn’t going be able to cover keeping the truth from Cal. He’ll see Liam there, tomorrow, sat beside Zayn and pretending to be his lover, and Cal will punch him. He might punch them both—Cal has always been a jealous type.

“Well, all I can say is, if he’s any prettier than you, I might come in my trousers,” Cal says.

Zayn takes an uncomfortable breath and glares at him. “I thought I told you, you had to make an appointment to see me from now on.”

“Why didn’t you say that when I first walked in? I’m comfortable now,” he says, gesturing to the drink in his hand, his legs sprawled over the arm of the chair.

“I forgot,” Zayn grumbles.

“Maybe you should remember, for future reference.”

“Maybe you should just respect my wishes and get out of my office,” he says.

Zayn’s mind swirls quicker than the swill of ice in his glass as he looks down at the papers. He’s not used to this. Business. He’s not a business type of guy. And whilst he’s always been an avid reader, his enthusiasm to read reports and the minutia of deals along the black lines is non-existent. Amery usually does this for him. She figures things out. And all Zayn must do is sign his name or poise out a precisely planned rejection on the dotted line at the bottom: that’s the extent of business that Amery has told him, and as much Zayn cares to learn.

But this… is all figures and numbers, in a pile that Julie delivered onto his desk two hours ago. Zayn feels like he’s back at school, where he used to pick up books in the older section of the library and skim his eyes along the prose to make himself look smarter, as if he could understand what was written on the pages.

As if her presence was requested, Amery walks through the door, her eyes to the floor. When she looks up, her feet stop in their tracks, the papers in her hands nearly dropping to the floor. Her eyes turn hard like stone as they fall on Cal, lounged in Zayn’s chair as if it’s his home. There’s a flicker in her countenance that makes Zayn weary to be in the room with her, that makes his feet tense under the desk. She looks…

“What is he doing here?” she asks, impassive.

“I came to see my friend, if that is okay with you,” Cal replies.

“No, it’s not, actually,” she says. “Zayn is supposed to be working, and you’re a distraction.”

“I actually was going to ask if you could help me with that.” Zayn gives her a sheepish smile. “You know I’m no good at this stuff.”

Her shoulders fall. “I was hoping you might have figured it out yourself.”

Zayn shrugs. “I just see morse code. You know I’d be useless without you, sometimes.”

“Fine.” She shuffles the papers in her hands. “I would have preferred if you’d let me know you needed my help a while ago. I don’t have time get through as much as this as I can before your meeting, and I wanted to get it all done before.”

“My meeting?” Zayn asks.

She rolls her eyes. “You have a meeting with the home development group at two o’clock about the heating plan for their new houses. They want us to be their providers. Did Julie not tell you?"

“Julie tells me everything. Sometimes, I don’t listen,” he says.

“Well, clean out your ears and pick up your shit. This is your business, Zayn, no one else’s.”

Zayn’s expression turns sulking. “Sometimes, when you talk to me, it sounds like it may as well be Papa."

“And sometimes, I feel like I might as well be you,” she bites. “The only difference is, daddy won’t give me any recognition for my hard work because I’m not his precious, little boy.”

Zayn frowns. “Have I done something wrong?” 

Cal leans forward and in a quietened voice—though it makes no difference—he says, “I think it’s that time of the month. Don’t take it too personally.”

Amery bites back her lips as she overhears—but Zayn thinks that’s what Cal is trying to achieve.

“I’ll go and sit in the conference room until the meeting starts,” she motions to the papers in her hand, “work on these.”

“Come, stay in here,” Zayn says. “I could do with the company.”

She shakes her head, staring at the back of Cal’s head. Her usual indifferent frustration with him is replaced with a rawer emotion, and she looks away quickly as if the picture of him stings her eyes. Zayn almost thinks he sees a subjugated shadow cover her frame.

“Not whilst he’s in here,” she says quietly, and leaves. The door is left open behind her.

Zayn’s eyes turn to Cal, narrowed. “What happened?”

Cal looks up from his phone, confused. “What?”

“Amery. She’s acting strange.”

He shrugs. “I told you, it’s probably that time of the month.”

“No, she was like it the other day, too, at dinner,” Zayn says. _When I mentioned you_. “Have you done something to upset her?”

“Me?” Cal shifts so he’s sat upright, his legs back on the floor. His expression morphs into a tone more serious. “Why? Did she say I’d done something? What did she tell you?”

“She hasn’t told me anything. That’s why I’m asking you,” Zayn says.

Cal rolls his shoulders and slides back down into the chair. “Oh. Nothing. I haven’t—there’s nothing.”

“You were in here alone the other day. I know how quickly things can escalate between you two. If you’ve had a spat, just apologise. I can’t deal with her being bitchy like that to me over something you’ve done. We have a business to run, we need to keep the peace,” Zayn says. “It’s most likely my fault. I shouldn’t have left you two alone together.”

“I told you, Zayn, there’s nothing,” he says with indifference.

“Good. Because if I find out you’ve hurt my sister, to the point where she doesn’t want to sit in a room with you, because you repulse her that much, I will kill you,” Zayn says.

Cal glances over to him with a glimmer of a smile on his lips— a smile that tells Zayn his threat has been heard, loud and clear. Whether he cares enough or not, Zayn can’t tell.

He says, quietly, as if retreating from another course of action he’s decided against, “I know, Zayn.”

Zayn continues reading through the papers, as if he might be able to make more sense of it now that his eyes are refreshed, but he finds himself more stuck than he was before. Cal remains quiet as Zayn becomes more frustrated, which he’s grateful for. Even the smallest sound in the room he thinks might make him snap.

Julie knocks on the door not long after and puts an end to the nightmare.

“The meeting is in five minutes,” she says and leaves.

Zayn stands to his feet and does the buttons up on his blazer. “I assume you’re going to stay here?”

“Yes, I thought we could go for a drink after. Or do something fun,” Cal says.

“You’re having a drink now.”

“Is wanting to have a drink somewhere where the view is more exciting a crime?”

“It should be, at two o’clock in the afternoon, on a Thursday,” Zayn says.

“It’s Friday.”

Zayn frowns. “It is?”

The Gala is tomorrow. Zayn’s heart picks up at the thought. He could have sworn it was two days away. He’s been preparing himself in his mind for it to be two days away, down to the last dot. Now everything’s been thrown off track and he hasn’t got time to rearrange. He’ll be seeing Liam tomorrow. He thought he had more time to recover from their last encounter. Zayn takes a breath. Where did a whole day go?

“Happy hour is at four o’clock at Nine’s,” Cal says. “It might be my last chance to get a good lay before the Gala. Rosemary will be attending with me.”

Zayn chuckles. “I’m no councillor, but I don’t think you should sound so unenthused at the idea of your wife joining you to a party.”

“She gets all snobbish and doesn’t let me leave her side for the whole night. It’s like being a child that’s trailed around everywhere,” he says, grumbling.

“I can’t imagine why she would treat you like that,” Zayn says. “It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact you can’t keep your cock in your trousers long enough for it to go flaccid, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re not supposed to agree with her.”

“But, my friend,” Zayn says. “I do.”

“Are you going to come with me to Nine’s or not?” Cal asks, irritated. “I’ve been thinking about that boy… the charming one.”

Zayn doesn’t realise his mouth has opened before he hears Liam’s name slip past his lips.

“Yes, him,” Cal says. “How do you remember his name?”

“I met him. When you were still knocked out on pills.” Zayn claps himself on the back.

Cal leans forward on the desk and rests his cheek in his palm. “I wonder if he’ll be there.”

“He won’t,” Zayn says quickly.

“What was that?”

Zayn’s heart stutters. He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“That man has got the nicest arse,” Zayn can almost hear Cal’s mouth salivating as he speaks and can’t deny that his own tongue wets at the tip, just slightly. “I mean, have you seen—”

“I have a meeting to get to, remember?” Zayn says, his shoulders defensive as they tense. “I don’t have time to sit around fantasising about past lovers.”

Cal laughs and stands to his feet. He’s heading to the door as he says, “I’ll meet you there, maybe.”

“No,” Zayn mumbles in return, but Cal has already wandered off.

He walks to the far side of his office and opens the door connected to the conference room. The room is already bustling with people, and no one notices as he stands in the doorway. The housing development team from Acorn sit the closest to him; his PA sits in the front, her typer ready, surrounded by a few colleagues from his own team; Amery is dawdling, making conversation with the away team. At the far end of the room, furthest away from him, sits a few hand-picked interns, their lack of experience and awkward glancing and their proclivity to remain huddled like a group of defensive animals making them stand out like a sore thumb.

His eyes scan the heads in the room. And then, what should have been a casual assessment of the room becomes a moment that makes his heart lurch. Among this group, sat down at the table in a casual sprawl, scrolling through his phone and not paying attention to anyone, is Liam.

Zayn finds it ridiculous—wants to smack the side of his head and tell himself to wisen up—that the first thought that pops into his mind is not of alarm, not of dread, but of how handsome Liam looks today in his cable-knit sweater. His hair his combed down over his forehead instead of gelled up like it usually is, and his skin, Zayn realises now as it’s contrasted with the dark grey of his sweater, has paled considerably for the season. Zayn swears he spots lip balm on Liam’s lips glisten underneath the harsh lights.

On the other side of the room, Julie waits patiently. Her eyes meet Zayn and she smiles, opening her mouth to introduce him into the room.

Zayn slams the door shut and presses his back to the wood.

Liam is there. _He isn’t supposed to be there_. He’s supposed to be on the seventh floor, working, far away from Zayn.

Julie comes rushing in through the front entrance to his office, her face concerned.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, almost panicked. “Should I call an ambulance?”

“What? No. Why would I need—” Zayn pauses and waves her off. “Why is Liam in there?”

“What?” she asks, confused.

“The interns,” he corrects. “What are the interns doing in there? It’s supposed be a meeting.”

“Oh,” Julie says. “Ms. Malik thought it would be a good idea to have some of the interns sit in on the meeting. She said it would be good experience for them.”

Zayn goes over the faces of the interns in his mind, lingering longer than he should on Liam, and curses under his breath. Amery invited only the male interns to come and sit in on the meeting. Her voice echo’s in his mind. _Which intern is it? The one with the black hair, Jack, he’s pretty cute._ Zayn groans—he shouldn’t put it past Amery to bring personal matters into professional situations when it comes to her having the upper hand against her brother.

“I can’t go in there,” Zayn says.

“But the colleagues from Acorn are here. They’re expecting you—”

“I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. He lies, “Not when there’s so many people in there. I wasn’t expecting that many people. My chest is getting tight just thinking about it.”

Julie’s eyes grow wide and she nods adamantly. “Okay, I’ll tell them that you’ll reschedule.”

“No,” he says, “just tell Amery that she can take care of it.”

Julie winces. “They need your signature. I’m afraid you’ll have to be present for the meeting.”

Zayn sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The room, all of a sudden, feels twice as hot. “Fine. Just… tell Amery that it’s an emergency and that I need to reschedule. Say it loud, so everyone in the room can hear,” he says, adding, “And don’t call me Mr. Malik, just call me Boss. They’ll understand.”

“Of course,” Julie says.

“And Julie,” Zayn says to her as she turns to leave the room, “make up some more work for the interns.”

“What kind of work?”

“I don’t know. Anything to keep them here longer tonight,” he says.

 _If Liam is here,_ Zayn thinks _, he can’t be there. With Cal._

When he’s alone, he rests his head against the door. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, and releases. Again. Until his heart slows down, he breathes. Then, he thanks the stars that Liam hasn’t met his sister yet, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to say he’s succeeded by the scrape of his teeth, and Amery would be dragging him into the room to humiliate him, unaware of the lie he’s spun that he’s managed to tangle Liam in, too.  

After a minute, he opens his eyes and composes himself. His brows are strong, his fingertips shaking. He sneaks out of the lobby and into the elevator like he’s a thief trying to camouflage in the shadows of a crime he’s avoiding responsibility of committing.

 

 

— + —

 

“Why do you have another job,” Zayn says, “if you’re so well off with being an escort?”

Zayn’s never noticed the crack in his ceiling before. It runs from over his bed and across the room. But he notices it now, big and dark and shadowed, as he lies on his back on his bed. It falls perfectly centred across the middle of his mattress, like two halves of the room, conflicted. He follows the line until it stops, and below it the door of his bathroom opens ajar.

Liam peers out. “What do you mean?” he asks, before disappearing again.

He’s naked, Zayn thinks. He pops another strawberry slice into his mouth.

“What I meant and what I asked were very synonymous,” Zayn says. “It’s not like you need another job.”

Liam’s voice is muffled as he speaks. “I don’t understand why you’re concerned.”

 _Because this would be much easier if you didn’t work for me_. Instead, he says, “I’m simply curious.”

Liam pauses. Shuffling ensues. The sound of fine trousers sliding up muscled thighs.

“I love being an escort. I’ve told you that,” Liam says. “It’s entertaining and pleasurable, and I get paid at the same time. Everyone strives to make their job a happy one.”

“I sense a conjunction,” Zayn says.

Liam’s head appears in the doorway. He leans against the frame, his eyes everywhere around the room and then on Zayn. “Being an escort… There isn’t much mental exercise involved. Sometimes it makes me feel sluggish.”

“You get bored,” Zayn surmises.

Liam’s lips are thin. “I wouldn’t put it like that,” he says, and disappears again.

“I would.” Zayn hums and picks at the chocolate drops instead. “Is it difficult—juggling two jobs?”

“On the contrary,” Liam says, “I feel like I have more energy than ever.”

“And that doesn’t have to do with the excitement of being a million-pound better off?” Zayn asks, amused.

Liam pops his head through the door, glaring. “No.” Through the other side of the door, Liam mumbles something else.

“What was that?” Zayn asks.

“Nothing!”

Zayn wonders, “Do you even sleep?”

“Of course I do,” Liam says. “Escorting has a relative schedule. It’s… like working on commission, of sorts. You don’t pick someone up, you don’t get paid. It’s rare that someone wants you for the whole night. It’s even more rare for someone to want you for the whole day.”

“I don’t want you,” Zayn says. The words feel odd on his tongue, and he frowns. “You’re a necessity for me to succeed in my duplicity.”

“Why me?”

Zayn is quiet for a moment. In his mind, being handsome is much too of a vulnerable and pathetic reasoning. So, he says, after a moment’s thought, “Escorts have a thing with customer privacy, don’t they? You were the only one I could trust, impartially that is, with my secret.”

Liam’s steps out of the bathroom, fully clothed in his new suit. His steps are diffident against the carpet, hands close to his side. It’s a strange sight, to see Liam any type of unsure. _He shouldn’t be insecure_ , Zayn thinks, springing to his feet, his brows softened and raised, _in any world._ Zayn’s eyes can’t help but dance over Liam like a refreshing wash of colour.

“You know, you don’t have to lie. You could be honest,” Liam says.

Zayn barely registers Liam’s words. He doesn’t meet Liam’s eyes as he mumbles, “Then you wouldn’t get paid.”

“I told you, I’m not doing it for the money,” Liam says. “Are you okay? You look strange.”

“You look…” Zayn begins, catches himself, and lets it go. He looks Liam over once more, and, shifting his fingers over his trousers and taking a breath, composes himself. “I’m fine. The suit… suits you.”

“Well, I’m glad, seeming as that’s what it’s supposed to do,” Liam says.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” Then, he swallows. “Red is definitely your colour.”

Liam looks down. “It’s maroon, actually. It said on the suit bag.” He runs his hands along the fabric. “I’m assuming you like velvet?”

“Mine is matching,” Zayn says. “You have a red suit and shoes with a black shirt. I have the opposite.”

“No tie?”

“I hate ties. They’re too formal.”

Liam’s brow quirks. “It’s a formal gathering.”

“Then it’s not suave enough,” Zayn says, huffing. “Can you take that off now? I don’t want you damaging it before tomorrow.”

“Are you sure it’s not because you’re getting aroused?” Liam asks.

Frustration rises at the smug in Liam’s voice. He points to the bathroom, eyes hard. “Change.”

When Liam disappears, Zayn shifts a hand over his crotch, which is, he realises, despite the feelings of natural attraction within his body, suppressed and unaroused. He takes the time whilst he’s waiting for Liam to change to return to the bed.

Liam joins him not long after, grazing on the chocolate.

“You look good in your natural habitat,” Liam says.

“I look good all the time,” Zayn replies, uninterested.

Liam picks at a strawberry. “It’s like a hotel.”

“You won’t get the nice hospitality of one,” Zayn says.

Liam smirks. “How many men have you let into your bed?”

Zayn looks at him. “That is none of your business.”

“Am I the first?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Zayn says and swallows. “And besides, you are not in my bed, nor will you ever be.”

Liam looks around, as if to make his point. “Then, what am I now?”

“You are on top of my bed,” Zayn says. He appends, mumbling, “and I’m holding back my objections to that.”

Liam moves to the top of the bed and shuffles underneath the thin sheet. “Now, I’m in your bed.”

“You’re underneath the comforter. That’s not being in the bed,” Zayn says. When Liam goes to move, Zayn points his finger at him. “Don’t you dare. I don’t want my clean sheets dirtied.”

“I had a shower this morning.”

“I don’t care.”

Liam readjusts his legs and offers Zayn to join him. Zayn, who acts annoyed at the gesture—and he is, though his skin tingles at the thought of being close to Liam, like a wave reaching across the shore with tempting hands and washing over his feet—moves up the bed, anyway. He feels too close to Liam, not that he dislikes being in this proximity, feeling the radiating heat and gentle cologne of Liam’s skin, but in a sense that he feels two men, with such a tension between them, shouldn’t be alone and so close together, at all. But Zayn fears he might make it awkward by shifting further apart.

He decides to remain silent, even when Liam’s thigh brushes against his and realises, as he looks up to Liam’s face, it was intentional.

Liam’s finger brushes against the side of Zayn’s cheek.

“You have… _exquisitely_ pretty eyes,” Liam whispers.

Zayn doesn’t have time to protest the touch before a softer, much warmer sensation is curling along his lips. A touch that tastes like chocolate and mint, and everything Zayn can’t explain but knew Liam would taste of. Zayn’s hand instinctively wraps into Liam’s shirt and he turns to his side. Liam takes advantage of the position to pull Zayn in closer by his waist.

Zayn doesn’t understand why he allows it; why he doesn’t pull away. It’s been a long time since he’s been touched this way, and even longer since he’s met someone with such dexterous and understanding hands like Liam’s. But it’s not like he wants it. It’s not like he’s ever wanted it. Not from… not from Liam. Of all people.

His tongue meets Liam’s in the middle, and Liam moans. Liam’s hands don’t wander anywhere other than where Zayn shows he’s comfortable with them being. Zayn shows his gratitude by hooking a thigh over Liam’s waist and pulling them closer. The warm bulge of Liam’s crotch is more than evident against Zayn’s thigh; he pretends to ignore it but slowly, teasingly rocks against it, Liam’s groans like pulses of electric that spark excitement in his veins.

Zayn doesn’t know why he wants it. He hasn’t had this in a long time, and everything—in his muscles and his bones and the receptors at the end of his thoughts—overflows. It’s not Liam: desperate men reach for desperate measures. On a normal day, where Liam wasn’t here, and he was alone, Zayn would allow himself the company of his own hand. But Zayn reminds himself that this is not a normal situation, and if he stoops low enough in his own standards to allow an escort into his bed, then he’ll blame it on the extraordinary circumstances of his peculiar situation—a situation which, he’ll deny, he caused the peculiar ramifications of.

Teeth bite down on to Zayn’s lip hard, and Zayn, as if being shocked into a cognisance, pulls away. He ignores the rejection on Liam’s face, and the bitter taste that is left on the tip of his tongue, like he’s pulled away from something sweet and enjoyable much earlier than he should. He wipes a hand across his lips. Red smears onto the back of his hand.

“You made me bleed,” Zayn says.

“It’s a sign of affection,” Liam says.

Zayn quirks his brow. “And the grabbing wasn’t?”

Liam shrugs. His smile is boyish and couth. “I’m sorry. Does it sting?”

“I’ll survive.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Zayn glances down to Liam’s crotch, realising it’s a mistake only when his cheeks flush, and he looks away. He rubs his fingers over his swollen lip.

“You can take a shower,” Zayn says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He feels Liam shift and a warm hand placed on the side of his arm. “I told you, I took a shower this—”

“A cold one,” Zayn interrupts. His tone is brunt, and he moves from under Liam’s touch, standing to his feet. “I’m going to make coffee. There are fresh towels in the compartments to the side.”

Zayn shuts the door behind him and takes a deep breath. When the shower starts, he pulls away from the door and heads to the kitchen, his feet tacky from sweat as they pad along the floor. He’s thankful for the noise of the kettle corrupting the dangerous flow of his thoughts as it boils, so he can have a sliver of peace. So he doesn’t go mad thinking about Liam standing, naked, in his shower.

Liam walks into the kitchen only minutes later, his hair damp. Though he decides to remain turned away from Liam, Zayn spots that he’s opted for the towel, wrapped loosely around his waist, instead of his clothes. Zayn frustratedly sighs.

“A cock does not go flaccid that quickly under water,” Zayn says, leaning against the counter, his back to Liam. “Did you spill in my shower?”

“Your shower is safe from whatever you think it’s unsafe from.”

Zayn peers over his shoulder and eventually turns around. “Were you really that close?”

“You were rubbing very enthusiastically against my cock,” Liam says.

“Only a few more moments and you would have spoiled your bottoms.”

“Yes,” Liam admits. Zayn is surprised to see him almost… abashed: a dangerous habit around Zayn that senses formation. He’s calm, and yet he shifts on his feet, little droplets of water falling off his skin and onto the floor.

Zayn’s chest almost swells. With amusement or pride, he’s unsure. It’s been a while since anything like this has happened to him. In fact, it’s possibly unprecedented. Men do not get this close to him—still, a thousand miles away—because Zayn doesn’t let them. He thinks, maybe, that’s what’s annoying him. He feels like he isn’t in control.

“That does not happen often? Accidental spillage,” Zayn say, muffling a laugh.

“Is there coffee for me?” Liam asks.

Zayn grins and looks away. “I made sure.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Zayn says. “You can drink it and get out.”

Liam pauses mid-sip, his lips puckered over the edge of the glass. “Really?” he asks.

“Well, I was joking. But now, I’m not so sure,” Zayn says, humming. “I’m having an early night.”

“It’s early afternoon,” Liam says.

“Aren’t you perceptive,” Zayn says.

“It would take me at least forty minutes to get dressed when if you stare at me like that,” Liam says. He sets his glass down and leans against the side. The towel, ever so slightly, pulls down.

Zayn turns again so his face is partially unseen. Liam is still a clear picture out of the corner of his eye, but further away, safer. “Staring at you like what?”

“Sometimes, your eyes shine, and they’re honey gold. Like they catch a light,” he says. Then he adds, smiling, “or perhaps it’s your 20k watch.”

“Inventive,” Zayn says. “I can’t possibly think of who could have said that before. Certainly not me.”

“Oh, definitely not.”

Zayn finds them both laughing and followed shortly by a creeping silence.

“If you really want me to go…” Liam says.

“No,” Zayn says. “No, you can stay. Truth be told, I struggle to sleep. My medication keeps me up most nights.” After a moment, he breathes out, circles his fingers over the rim of his glass. “I don’t know why I told you that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Liam says.

“I’d appreciate it if you forgot I said anything,” Zayn says.

Liam raises his hand and taps his head, leaning it to the other side, as if attempting to drain his ears of water. “There. It’s gone.”

Zayn shakes his head, though he’s grinning. “You’re an idiot.”

“Probably. A little bit. Though, I do have a degree.” He adds, begrudgingly, “almost.”

“Almost?”

“I dropped out before graduation. When I took the escorting job,” he says.

“I’ve been told you like to profess sonnets during the act,” Zayn jokes.

“I would hardly put it like that,” Liam says. “Like I said, sometimes I get bored.”

Zayn, feeling a sudden sense of awkwardness, nods his head. “Right.”

His eyes turn down to investigate the counter, though his attention remains on Liam and pays full focus, with quickening breaths, whilst Liam walks silently along the floor, prowling closer to him. Two certain arms wrap around his waist, and, as easily as that, their bodies are flush.

Zayn allows them to be. In fact, he goes rather limp in Liam’s arms. He’ll deny that the dependability in the moment, the feeling of being in the arms of someone you know would catch you, felt good, and might possibly be a feeling that he hasn’t experienced since he was a child and his father still treated him as such.

But Liam’s lips swell around Zayn’s earlobe, that delicate spot underneath Zayn’s jaw, and… Zayn loses his breath—how could he deny this?

“I think you might find a place in media,” Zayn says, raising an arm around Liam’s neck and pulling him closer. Liam’s lips feel impossibly sweeter on his skin. “You’re a very talented actor.”

“You can pay me all you want, but desire doesn’t lie,” Liam says, esuriently, and presses Zayn into the counter and slides a hand up Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn’s fingers curl in Liam’s hair. The counter is cold against his skin that Liam has left exposed. “You’d be surprised.”

“You forget what I do for a living, baby.”

Zayn moans out a sigh, his head rolling back onto Liam’s sinewy shoulder. He makes sure their lips don’t meet, pushing Liam away when he tries. It’s too intimate in a moment that feels so much more hot and needy and rough. Zayn’s breath is exerted like he’s running away, not just in mind but body, too. Liam is not far behind him. Already, he senses the gratification of Liam’s hips pushing and pulling in motion, and the gap of loose fabric that will soon be pulled tight by a lust screaming for unrestraint.

Liam’s hand winds down across his abdomen, down to Zayn’s crotch, where it touches, gentle and desperate, palm rolling. The material is thin: Zayn knows anything he wants to be hidden won’t be for long. Not if Liam is so determined to bring them to the same level, to see Zayn writhing underneath his touch, moaning his name, his pride shattering the window on its way out as he whines…

“Liam,” Zayn says, breathless. He pulls Liam’s hands away. “I can’t.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?” Despite this, Liam doesn’t press—he steps back, leaving only lingering kisses on Zayn’s skin where the dip in Zayn’s shirt collar allows him to.

Zayn, feeling his cheeks flush like being pressed to flames, sighs. “I’m just… It’s just disappointment, a plateau.”

“I can assure you,” Liam mumbles, “it’s not disappointing.”

“I don’t… it doesn’t like to cooperate. My cock is antisocial.”

Liam pauses against his skin, laughing after a moment. “Did you really just call your cock antisocial?”

“I don’t know how else to put it,” Zayn says. He manages a laugh, but embarrassment is taking over. “I… it—pleasure—doesn’t do well communicating with me. I feel it, the extent of it doesn’t show on the surface. Like a bruise.”

Liam’s touches morph from demanding to gentle, sweeping up the side of Zayn’s arm, his chin rested between Zayn’s shoulder and his neck. His hands, now moistened with expectancy, lay insouciantly around Zayn’s waist.

“Are you suppressing it?” he asks.

“No,” Zayn says. Then, re-evaluates. “Well, yes. But not deliberately. I… take medication.”

“For?”

“A medical issue,” Zayn says, rougher.

Liam allows a silence to ensue, and Zayn does nothing to break it. They stand there for a while, Zayn doesn’t know how long, but Liam becomes content enough to start slowly rocking, and Zayn feels at peace enough to enjoy it.

Then, they’re apart. The coldness of the kitchen seeps in.

“You should get heated flooring,” Liam mutters. “My feet are freezing.”

“This may take you by surprise, but I don’t intentionally invite men into my apartment. If your feet are cold, put socks on.” Zayn turns around to watch Liam, poking his head in and out of cupboards. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for snacks.” He pulls a double-decker bar from the cupboard. “I took you for more of a Milkyway type of guy.”

Zayn crosses his arms and leans against the side. “Soft and submissive? Really?”

“No,” Liam says. “Dangerously underestimated.”

Zayn hums, lips curling. “I prefer things thick and chewy. More of a challenge on my teeth.”

Liam is not yet hard, but, as Zayn’s eyes lower and linger around an area he knows they should not be, he finds Liam on the verge of something more; a quick peak of what’s underneath, as if daring to be touched.

“Milkyway’s are my favourite,” Liam says with honest eyes. “Sometimes, though, I prefer something more fun.”

“You are not eating my double decker,” Zayn says.

“You owe me.”

“For?”

“For being a flaccid dick,” Liam says, humorously. “No pun intended.”

Zayn’s face falls, brows hard. “I’m paying you fifteen thousand chocolate bars. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Zayn, the pun was intended. I was joking,” Liam says, laughing to himself. “You were so relaxed ten seconds ago. Let’s go back there.”

It’s a struggle to unwind his shoulders and unwind his defences, but he’s calm—and only slightly resentful—by the time Liam has handfuls of snacks and is balancing them into the living area.

“I’m taking this out of your cheque,” Zayn mumbles, dropping beside Liam on the settee.

“You were going to give me a cheque?” Liam asks. He pops a handful of skittles into his mouth.

“Did you expect a black briefcase full of notes?”

 “Cheques take longer to clear than cash.”

“I don’t think you’re in the position to be picky,” Zayn says, and snatches the bag from Liam’s hands, trading them with the remote. “I will watch anything but The Lion King.”

Liam pauses. “That’s my favourite film.” Pensive, he says, “It’s Zazu isn’t it? He’s an annoying prick.”

Zayn raises his brows. “Yes. That’s why,” he says, because it’s easier than telling Liam he cries every time he watches it.

 

 

— + —

 

 

Liam steps into the bedroom adorned in his suit, looking as dashing as ever. In fact, Zayn thinks he might look better than he did yesterday, like the material has had time to familiarise with his skin. His hair is styled, his face lightly powdered and concealed—not that there’s much to correct.

Having already been accustomed with the sight of Liam in lavish, luxury beauty, Zayn finds it easier to remain composed, even when his ears, covered by his overgrown hair, flush and turn red. He reaches for some water to clear his dry mouth.

However, it’s Liam that pauses, the sole of his shoes sticking to the ground, mouth parted enough to slip a finger inside and draw it along his tongue. His fingers are wound around the button of his sleeve mid-motion.

Liam wets his lips with his tongue. Zayn, who always implies that his insecurities are mere nuisances to his presence, can’t help but cave in to a doubt as Liam’s eyes glaze over him in a slow and casual stroll. He wipes his hands over his trousers to clear the tackiness and smiles, though he remains silent.

“You look beautiful,” Liam blurts out. His mouth clamps shut.

Zayn takes a breath. “I know,” he says, adding, when Liam’s brows lower, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Zayn takes a flute of champagne into his hand and walks to Liam, offering it to him.

Almost hungrily, Liam takes it. “None for you?”

Zayn holds his flute of water up instead. “It’s sparkling. It almost succeeds in convincing me,” he says, humorously. “I can’t drink, not with the medication. It wears off in a few hours, but I won’t risk it.”

“Smart and responsible,” Liam jokes.

“I always am,” Zayn says.

“Forgetting your coat when it’s two degrees outside doesn’t seem responsible,” Liam says.

Zayn smirks. “You think I left my coat on accident?”

Liam takes a sip of his champagne, mumbling, “No.”

Without a knock, the doors to his bedroom push open. Cal, in his glory, waltzes in.

It takes him a moment to understand the scene in front of him, still in sentence before he looks up. Then, the room is silent. Cal’s eyes morph from confusion to betrayal and then, swiftly, to a notion more wickedly suspicious. Zayn’s heart beats like the wings of a bird mid-flight.

“You look handsome,” Zayn says—it’s the only thing he can think of.

He ignores Zayn completely, eyes on Liam. He says, “What are you doing here?”

“I think that’s rather obvious,” Zayn replies, “and none of your business.”

“Is this why you haven’t been at Nine’s?” he asks, almost pathetically.

“Most likely,” Liam says. “He’s kept me on a celibate hook.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Hardly.”

“So, you fucked him?” Cal asks Liam. Zayn can see the anger swirling away behind his eyes, though his tone remains calm.

“Again, none of your business,” Zayn says, though he feels his skin flush underneath his shirt.

Liam stays quiet in agreement.

“He can be frigid,” Cal says. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone ever touch him. I can’t see him picking a whore’s grubby hands over someone who is much more his level.”

Zayn’s eyes widen, a dawn of realisation dripping onto his hot skin like drops of water from the sea; cold and awakening.

He looks deep into Cal’s eyes, their harsh front exposing some much deeper and unpleasantly honest softness, like melting wax, underneath. He almost wants to laugh, but instead leans in, subtly, closer to Liam and sighs. He’d been right: Cal is jealous. Of who, he’d been wrong.

Zayn decides he likes the idea of Cal believing he’s slept with Liam—perhaps as equally as the fantasy of doing it.

“You had no problem with this whore’s hands on you a fortnight ago,” Liam says.

“It’s not where you put your hands, darling. It’s where I’ve apparently been putting mine,” Zayn says. He derisively looks to Cal. “Where is your wife? We shouldn’t be having these types of conversations with her in such proximity.”

“She’s in the car,” Cal grits out.

Zayn nods. “And why are you here?” When he remains silent, Zayn continues, “You came here to size down my date.”

“I came here to see if you were okay,” Cal says, sighing. His shoulders change from a tense, cogged hold to slow, inconsistent grinds. “I know your anxiety piques before these things.”

“Yes. Well, I’m fine,” Zayn says. Playfully, he leans in closer to Liam; Liam slinks a hand around his waist. “I’m sure my lover is adequate protection. You have seen his muscles. He can protect me.”

Liam’s grip tightens, as if to prove the point.

Cal looks on, clearly undecided on how to feel, but irritation is as determined as cement. His eyes flicker from Zayn to Liam, down to the arm around Zayn’s waist that connects them. Zayn takes a sip of his water as if he’s bored, but his gaze never leaves Cal. Neither, he notices, does Liam’s. His arm around Zayn’s waist lowers, and the pressure of his fingers becomes more than just an act.

“Oh, look at this,” Zayn says, sounding amused, “two men in a room who think they have the right to try and fight over me, as if the choice is not mine and has not already been made.” He motions his flute between them. “Can I sense a Mexican stand-off?”

Liam doesn’t back down. Neither does Cal. Zayn smirks behind the rim of his glass.

There is one thing Zayn is aware of that separates the two men in front of him. Liam, hooked around Zayn like he’s attached to a chain, remains still and even-breathed. A surety radiates as naturally from him as his cool demeanour. Liam is a man who stands on the ground, wherever he may go, as if he is supposed to be there.

Cal, whose fingers are deep set into his palms, attempting to remain calm but finding himself surprisingly emotional, feels lost in a moment he didn’t predict to be caught in and with nowhere to hide. Stood almost as if he’s been turned to stone by the revelation of the moment. And Zayn knows that somewhere, deep down in Cal’s chest, his pride is trembling with the doubt that he, in some possible, ridiculous notion he feeds, is not as worthy of Zayn—a man he’s known for over a decade—than a glamorised, over-endorsed prostitute Zayn met weeks ago, who has been chosen over him.

Cal falls deflated, and he sighs. “I just wanted to know if you’re okay.”

“I am fine, thank you,” Zayn says. “I have taken my medication, and there is oil under my tongue. You don’t need to worry.”

Cal laughs humourlessly. “Right.”

“Your wife will be waiting,” Zayn says. “I will see you at the Gala.”

“Zayn, I—”

“We can talk about it later, once you’ve thought longer about what you wish to ask,” Zayn says, calmly.

Cal, wordlessly, leaves. Liam doesn’t drop his hand. As the gentle understanding that Cal may, in spite, blurt out to his family who Liam is at any given moment of the evening settles like the bubbles in his water, Zayn is thankful that the reassuring grip and the relaxing warmth of Liam remains. He’s forgotten how… nice it feels to be warm whilst he’s afraid, instead of alone.

When Zayn finally turns his eyes away from the door, Liam kisses him. Sparsely, but certain. Zayn allows it—even welcomes it, a hint of champagne on Liam’s lips, on his tongue as it swipes across Zayn’s. He wonders if he could get drunk like this, and then pulls away.

“Let’s not fall too far down the rabbit hole,” Zayn says, a hand raising to Liam’s shoulder. “Lines will begin to blur if we unnecessarily touch.”

Liam gently shushes him. “He might still be outside the door,” he whispers, and leans in again.

“You’ll wipe off my lip balm,” Zayn mumbles through kisses, though he makes little attempt to move away after Liam draws him back in.

“I’ll reapply it for you.”

They kiss until their lips are swollen, until Zayn notices the time on the clock and tells Liam they can’t be late. His father is religiously one with punctuality, he tells Liam, which translates to: he doesn’t want to give his father another reason to be disappointed in him. Liam pulls away, sated not by the champagne, and straightens the crease in his blazer that Zayn made with a clenched fist.

In the car, Zayn brushes the bruise on Liam’s neck with satisfied fingers. “Not even attempting to cover it up?”

“Why would I? It’s beautiful,” Liam says, chuckling. “I thought it would make for a persuasive sign of affection between us.”

Zayn is startled by disappointment. He moves his fingers away. “Right.”

Zayn keeps his eyes outside of his window, the sky already dark, city lights blurring past even once the car stops in traffic. At some point, Liam brings their hands together, and Zayn squeezes it tight with clammy fingers. His heart beats fast, his skin prickled with the flush of anxiety. A regret for not taking his pills creeps in, which he swills away with a gulp of water, though the bitter taste remains.

“When we get there, Amery will recognise you from work. She might remark, but she has a kind heart,” Zayn says. “Queenie, however, if you give her the chance, will rip you to shreds. Don’t give her a chance, which means, for the most part, don’t converse with her.”

“Who will notice me from work?” Liam asks.

“My sister—” Zayn turns around, his eyes that were ready to mock, widening. His mouth opens and shuts again, his teeth ground. Though the window is opening and allowing a draft to settle in the car, Zayn’s cheeks flush like rubies. 

Zayn is surprised to find Liam expression, not as off-guard and perhaps even angered like he’d expected, but complacent and calm and, if Zayn wasn’t as taken as he is, entertained. His lips quirked at the edge—as if it pleases him to see Zayn in such a pit of distress for falling into his own lie.

“It is always easier, in the long run, to be honest. Or to find someone completely, ridiculously stupid and oblivious to lie with you,” Liam says. “I’m sort of offended that you thought I was stupid enough to not notice, or to do some research. Google is a thing, you know. You have a pretty big name.”

“I—Why didn’t you—” He pauses, then begins again. “It was easier for you to not know.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Zayn starts, but finds himself empty-handed.

“What did you think was going to happen, when I eventually ran into you at work? How were you going to explain that?” Liam asks. “Did you think we wouldn’t be able to work it out? We’re adults, Zayn. Professional adults.”

“I… I know,” Zayn mumbles. His eyes are to their intertwined hands. “How long have you known?”

As if in reassurance, he raises Zayn’s hands to his lips and smiles. It’s an answer, Zayn realises: _from the beginning_. His head hits the back of the chair.

“I am best at lying when my mouth is shut and I keep it as close to vagueness as possible,” Zayn says.

“Yes,” Liam says. “No answer is sometimes better than anything else.”

Zayn turns his head to Liam. “Thank you for the enactment.”

“You’re welcome.” Liam’s lips are soft and warm, and Zayn can’t help but feel unworthy of the attention.

“I’ll still take you to Paris,” Zayn mutters. “If you want to.”

“How about I take us to Paris with my imbursement from you,” Liam says, laughing. Somewhere, Zayn lackadaisically, with embarrassment riddled in his cheeks, joins in. Liam’s face turns serious. “I would like to go, if I’m going with you. And not this hot-shot actor I’ve heard about.”

Zayn groans. “You will have no problem with that.”

Liam laughs. He looks beautiful, the lights from the city shining in his eyes as he leans in closer to Zayn, so Zayn can feel his minted breath across his skin. Zayn’s breath catches in his throat, brows low and unsure. With this new information between them, he doesn’t know how to act, what to think. He feels like he’s lost in a winding staircase where he thought he was four steps ahead, and Liam has yanked him back.

If he couldn’t deceive Liam over something so simple, how does he stand a chance with his family?

Liam is close, so close that Zayn feels the need to push back, his shoulders hitting the edge of the door, back straight, cornered. And yet, he doesn’t feel uncomfortable. He feels safe. Like they’re in a bubble and the world can’t touch them.

Fingers draw along Zayn’s cheek, and he leans into them.

“Come here,” Liam whispers.

Zayn hesitates, and then, going with the flow of his breathing, leans in. Liam tastes more reassuring than he’s ever done. Zayn’s hand is one in the soft tendrils of Liam’s hair, their tongues tattooing the other into the indents of their mouths. Liam undoes Zayn’s seatbelt and pulls Zayn into his lap, hands on his waist, squeezing greedily. Their lips never break. Liam’s moans reverberate through his bones and urge him on.

A buzz through the speakers from the driver pulls them apart. Zayn stops the instinctual movement of his hips, realising only once there is a second of stillness what he’s doing. He’ll blame his flushed cheeks on the cold, and his lack of control on Liam.

“We’re here,” Zayn says, breathless. “Promise me you’ll behave.”

“I promise.”

“It was a risk of me to bring you. Choosing you, to begin with.”

“Because I’m a whore?”

Zayn frowns. But he can’t deny it. “That doesn’t matter, now,” he says, instead. I chose you. “Tonight, you’re my lover.”

“Yes,” Liam mumbles. He brings his thumb over Zayn’s lip, once more. “And tomorrow, I’ll be me. All over again.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr (treacle-black).


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